


A Hazy Shade of Blood and Breath

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hannibal (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky knows, Crossover, Episode: s01e05 Coquilles, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Misunderstandings, Murder Family, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Graham's Home for Wayward Assassins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Will Graham is called out to assess the most recent in a string of killings, but for once he can tell this isnotthe killer's design.  The killer, super-impressed with this, follows him home.  Now Will finds he needs a crash course in the care and feeding of brainwashed assassins, and thank god he has a former surgeon on speed dial, and also dogs.  Because this situation clearly needs alotof dogs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Collected the bits from the "[winter profiler](http://ciceqi.tumblr.com/tagged/winter-profiler)" tag on my tumblr now that I've completely given up on giving this thing a decent name. D: But since I keep jotting this down in dribs and drabs, I'll keep updating there and compile here once I've got enough that it looks like an actual chapter.

It's not often he's called out to an office building. Most people tend to save their crimes of passion for home, but Will doesn't quite think that's what happened here. The room's a disaster, but it looks like the aftermath of an action movie more than a jealous boyfriend come to call. The whole setup was too well-plotted anyway; if this hadn't been the third set of murders within the last two months carried out in the exact same manner, he wouldn't be here at all.

He takes another slow look at the half-destroyed modern furniture of the dead lawyer's office, the still-running computer whose screen has long since gone dark, the two bodies dumped unceremoniously in the center of the floor. He closes his eyes. Light streaks across the darkness of his lids, and--

"I take the elevator up to the fifth floor after disabling the cameras. It's late and I know no one will see me who isn't marked to die. I let myself into Gwyneth Foster's office, and she notices me almost immediately. She gets up fast and throws her coffee up at my face. She's halfway to the door when I catch her by the arm; she grabs one of the chairs she keeps for her clients and swings it at me." _Attagirl_ , he thinks wistfully.

"Mike Scroggins hears the commotion and comes running to help. I knock him out in a single blow," Will says slowly, examining the deep lacerations across Scroggins' face. Bev is positive their killer is wearing some sort of metal gauntlet, though she hasn't been able to get a single alloy scraping off any of the victims, no matter how messy their killer gets. "He's not as important as Foster, or as dangerous; I leave him for later.

"I land a blow to Foster's head. It doesn't incapacitate her, but she's too disoriented to struggle as I wrap my hand around her throat. I...don't try to strangle her," he mutters with a frown. "I don't care about seeing the life fade from her eyes. She's going to be dead in under a minute, and I need to leave a mark that will stick. I crush her throat instead, leaving a unique pattern behind, then do the same to Scroggins while he's still unconscious. Before I leave, I take a small patch of skin from each of them, quick and dirty. Careless." He shakes his head in confusion as realization dawns. "This...is not my design."

"What?" Jack asks abruptly, shaking Will out of his thoughts. "Will?"

"Uh...yeah," Will says distractedly, shaking his head again to clear it. "This...this isn't a serial killer, Jack."

Jack arches a brow. "Seven deaths in six weeks and it's not a serial killer?"

"No. I mean, it's a killer, yes, but with a contract. Whoever these people are, they've all got something in common, and someone's being sent to kill them for it."

"What about the trophies?"

Will's mouth tightens, eyes skipping from the large, raw patch high on Scroggins' muscled bicep to the wound nestled to the inside of Foster's hip: smaller, more easily concealed, placed where it would only be seen by a lover--or someone who knew it was there.

"Not trophies," he says. "He's taking back something that doesn't belong to them. Tattoos, probably, but nothing run of the mill. They'll have something to do with why these people were targeted in the first place."

Jack's shoulders slump on a heavy sigh. "An assassin, huh? Fantastic."

Will has nothing but sympathy for Jack's glum look. It's bad enough knowing there are people out there for whom killing is a hobby without running into those who've turned it into a profession. Still, there's something that doesn't sit quite right about this one. The armor-plated left hand, maybe; it's such a strange affectation for a hired killer, and it's odd for one to get in close like this if he's working alone. Solo assassins usually stage accidents or snipe from afar.

Knowing there's not much else he can do for the moment, Will excuses himself and heads for his car. Though it's dark, it's not particularly late; he's got a bit of a walk ahead of him, the closest space he'd found in this section of downtown Baltimore a good four blocks away. Popping his collar against the wind, he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, thinking idly of Hannibal's knee-length coats. Maybe it's about time he invested in something warmer himself.

He's half a block away from his car when he realizes someone has fallen in step on his left. The back of his neck starts prickling instantly, because the guy's matching his pace too perfectly to be just another pedestrian, and despite the heavy boots he's wearing, his footsteps don't make a sound. He's wearing a hell of a lot of leather too, with way too many straps and buckles, and while Will may not be that familiar with Baltimore's social scene, he's pretty sure the clubs are in the opposite direction.

Long, dark hair curtains the man's face as he walks with his head tipped down, but Will's certain his own staring hasn't gone unnoticed.

"Can I help you...?" he asks, hyper-aware of the gun holstered at his hip. If this is a preface to a mugging, at least one of them is about to get an unpleasant surprise.

The man glances his way but doesn't lift his head, peering at Will sidelong through his hair. It's a weirdly shy look for a guy who looks like he can back up the leather without half trying. "How'd you know?" the stranger asks in a low, raspy voice, scratchy with disuse.

Will frowns, his footsteps slowing. "Know what?"

"That that wasn't my design."

Will takes another step before freezing in his tracks, a burst of adrenaline spiking through him. He knows he should pull his gun--at this range, even he can't miss--but the killer's posture is worryingly relaxed as he stops and turns to face Will. He's watching Will through his lashes now, chin still tucked low, and there's not a hint of threat in his tone, only simple curiosity.

"It's...." Will's jaw works as he bludgeons his brain into coughing up everything wrong with that scene, keeping his own tone as neutral as possible. "Killing someone with your hands is usually more...intimate. Personal. But those weren't personal for you at all. You had a job to do, and you did it, as efficiently as possible."

The killer's brows shoot up, impressed. "And you just...saw that?"

"I interpreted the evidence," Will corrects him quickly. He's not clairvoyant; he has an overactive imagination, not the mutant gene.

"Could you figure out other things?"

Will frowns. He's half afraid he's about to get an offer he can't refuse and half convinced he's about to be asked for a pony. "Like what?"

The killer looks down and away, then back. "Can you tell me who I am?"

Will's heart drops into his stomach as his own fears come to life. That's a question he's struggled with himself a time or two, and hearing it now is both terrifying and heartbreaking. He's seeing a picture now that he likes even less than _hired killer_ , and he flounders as he tries to work out what to say.

"I--I usually read crime scenes, not people. It's not a superpower; I'm just really observant. You know. Like Sherlock Holmes?"

The blank stare he gets in return sends a shiver racing down his spine. Who doesn't know who Sherlock Holmes is?

"Oh." There's such a wealth of disappointment in the guy's voice, Will nearly reaches out to him before he remembers this man just killed two people. "Sorry."

He forgets caution when he realizes the guy is turning to go.

"Wait, where are you--"

The man stops as Will's hand settles at the bend of his elbow, Will's protest stuttering silent at the same time. The guy may be built like a brick shithouse, but that's not flesh under his hand; it's metal. He glances down at the guy's hand--also metal, cleverly-jointed, way too natural to be a simple covering--and makes the leap from armor to prosthetic. Shit. The guy's got a _metal arm_ that he uses to kill people, and Will just grabbed him by it.

And here he is, _not dying_.

"Where are you going?" he asks in as normal a tone as he can manage.

"Extraction. I should be reporting in soon." He doesn't sound enthused, the corners of his mouth pulling in tightly.

"Report in to who? Who are you? Did you lose your memory, or do you have somebody else's, or--is that why you're being sent to kill these people? Why these people? And what are you taking from them? What--"

The guy's brows have been rising slowly as Will's questions get away from him, but it's not until a tiny, uncertain grin twitches to life that Will realizes he's babbling.

"Sorry," the guy says again. "If I stay any longer, they'll come looking. You don't want to be here if they do."

"I can arrest you," Will counters, almost hopefully.

The guy looks amused. "No you can't."

The next thing he knows, he's gripping air, his gun's been lifted, and the sidewalk before him is empty.

"Hey!" he calls after the guy, feeling more than a little foolish. "You don't have to go back, okay? Come talk to me!"

There's no reply, not that he really expected one.

Turning back the way he came, Will takes a step and hesitates. What would he even say to Jack about this in the first place?

***

Warned by the barking of the dogs as a car drives up, Will manages to keep a sober expression as he answers the knock at his front door. "Dr. Lecter," he says, glancing pointedly at the now-familiar excuse for a picnic basket in Hannibal's left hand. "On your way to grandmother's house?"

"Well...I have been over the river and through the woods."

The last time Hannibal stopped by with breakfast, he'd claimed he was making a house call in the area. The time before, he'd supposedly gotten lost. Will's pretty sure he's just here to visit the dogs.

Smile breaking free, Will steps aside and sweeps out a welcoming hand as the dogs surge forward to greet their second favorite person. "Come on in; the big, bad wolves have missed you."

The bag's contents clink promisingly as Hannibal reaches into his leather satchel for treats, handing the whole off to Will with only a quick glance for permission. He's brought jerky this time, thickly-cut to be more chewy than tough, likely homemade. Hannibal doesn't even stop to take his coat off before he's completely absorbed in his four-legged admirers, who sit politely at his feet without needing to be asked.

Will shakes his head as he takes the rest of the food to the kitchen, grinning a little at being so thoroughly ignored. By a _psychiatrist_ no less.

At least this one has good taste.

A peek at the containers he pulls out of the bag reveals the makings of a pretty impressive breakfast, but some assembly is definitely required. Will pulls out a skillet and sets the oven to preheat, fishes out a spatula and doesn't even jump when Hannibal materializes just behind his right shoulder. "Should I let you take over?" Will asks. He's a little surprised the idea doesn't offend him--it is his kitchen--but he's half afraid he'll manage to screw something up and embarrass himself.

"Not at all," Hannibal says with one of his tiny, private smiles. "You seem to have everything under control."

It's not exactly cooking _for_ Hannibal, but Will's willing to bet it's as close as most people ever get. Either way, it's flattering.

All the same, he's quiet as he cooks, distracted as he dishes up their plates and settles across from Hannibal at his small table. He can't stop thinking about the night before, that strange meeting with the even stranger killer. In hindsight he can see that trying to arrest the guy wouldn't have gotten him very far, but he feels guilty that he didn't even try, worse still that he didn't take the guy's description straight to Jack. It's just....

_Can you tell me who I am?_

Will sighs, hunched over his plate with his arm braced on the table, stabbing his fork at the protein scramble he's only half-tasted.

"Is something wrong?" Hannibal asks, concerned though he has every right to be insulted. Hannibal's cooking is a _gift_.

"Sorry," Will says, rounding his shoulders a little. "Just a case."

"The Silencer?"

Will blinks. "Is that what the papers are--wait. Is that what _Freddie Lounds_ is calling him?"

"Five throats crushed--or I suppose it's seven, now," Hannibal points out with a shrug. It's a shame more surgeons don't go in for psychiatry; Hannibal's utter unflappability in the face of maiming, madness and mayhem is nothing short of impressive. "I suppose it seemed appropriate."

"I don't think 'appropriate' is in Ms. Lounds' vocabulary," Will grumbles, but he lets the moniker slide. Any name she gives the lost man Will met last night is doomed to be wrong.

"Perhaps not. But there's something about the case that troubles you...?"

He hadn't really thought he'd be able to sneak that past Hannibal, and they are supposed to talk about these things, for all that Hannibal isn't his official psychiatrist. He just feels oddly like he's got a line to walk, like saying too much would betray a confidence.

"Sort of," Will admits, pushing his food around on his plate some more. "This killer...he's not your regular psychopath or sociopath. Killing is a job to him, but it's not one he wants to be doing. I'd say he was being intimidated or coerced into following orders, but I didn't detect any fear from him at all, just...a loss of self."

Hannibal's brows have arched steadily through Will's explanation, and now he cocks his head in thought. "Could he be killing to reestablish the sense of self he's missing?"

"No," Will says instantly, setting his fork down and leaning back in his chair. "It's not something he has any say in. Even the manner of death is scripted out for him."

"Hm. Then I'd say someone has taken the opportunity to fill the holes in his psyche with their own purpose. If you can determine who wrote his script, you may be able to predict where he'll strike next."

"Scripted," Will says absently, unfocused eyes fixed on Hannibal's left shoulder. "Like he's been programmed."

"Notoriously difficult, though hardly impossible, at least on the scale I believe you mean. Starting with a blank slate would certainly aid the process."

"Tabula rasa. Yeah, that...I think that sounds about right."

There's no crime scene here for Will to analyze, but bright flashes of gold haunt the edge of his vision, imagination caught by the disappointment in a reluctant killer's eyes.

***

The next week is quiet. Jack doesn't call him in on any new cases, and none of the existing ones receive an update. On one hand it's a relief, but no news means they're no closer to solving any of the crimes piling up.

He has second and third thoughts about not telling Jack about his unexpected encounter, wonders if he might have a quiet look at a database or two and what excuse he could possibly give if he's caught at it. When seven days pass with no new bodies, he lets himself quietly hope that maybe his one-armed acquaintance didn't report back to whoever's controlling him after all.

With only two classes to teach, Tuesdays should be his easy days. That it's the one day a week he sets aside for office hours means he usually comes home early but exhausted. Today he's been fighting off a worse headache than usual, likely due to the storm clouds that have been hovering at the horizon all afternoon. He's tempted to just leave the papers he needs to grade in the backseat, but conscientiousness wins that struggle, and he shoulders his bag with a sigh.

The dogs are usually waiting for him right on the other side of the door when he gets home, but today when he pushes it open, there's a great scrabbling of claws from the kitchen before they come galloping out to meet him. That's probably not a good sign; this far out in the country, mice are a constant hazard, and using traps to relocate them is a Sisyphean task at best.

Leaving the front door open so the pack can tumble out into the yard, he notices he's short a dog with a frown. "Buster?" he calls, dumping his bag by the door before walking to the kitchen. Buster barks once, which is reassuring.

The man sitting at his kitchen table is not.

The amnesiac assassin from the week before is just as intimidating as Will remembers, even though he's toned down the leather in favor of a red hoodie, a worn jacket of indeterminate color, threadbare jeans and a black ball cap pulled low over his eyes. He could almost pass for any random man on the street but for the eerie blankness of his expression.

Buster's standing on his hind legs, forepaws braced on the assassin's knee. When Will freezes dead in the doorway, Buster looks over with a huge, doggy grin and gives another cheerful bark, tail wagging furiously.

"You have a lot of dogs," Will's impromptu guest says by way of greeting.

"A few," Will agrees hesitantly. That doesn't sound like a threat, but he's more than a little thrown. Why is the guy here, and how did he find Will in the first place?

"They're lousy guards, though." The man sounds puzzled, and the look he turns on Buster is one of pure bafflement. He doesn't push the dog away, and Will is suddenly certain it's because the guy has no idea what to do with a dog that isn't trying to bite.

"Yeah, they're more likely to lick you to death, honestly," Will says, pulse briefly spiking as blue eyes widen in alarm. "Uh, that's a joke. They're good dogs. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

The assassin frowns. Buster's still staring at him, patiently waiting for the petting to start. "Why do you keep them, then?"

"Well, someone has to," Will blurts out after a beat, stomach sinking at the question. "They're all rescues. Abandoned, mostly, though I guess a few may have run off. They needed a home, so I took them in."

A slow, thoughtful nod.

"Listen." The man tenses. "Is there something I can call you? It doesn't have to be your name, but--"

"I don't remember it," he's told with a shrug, like it's barely worth mentioning. "They call me--"

Will's breath stills as the assassin catches himself with a frown, eyes sliding away before snapping back all at once.

"Winter," the guy says, tone firming with his expression. "You can call me Winter."

"Winter," Will echoes, "okay. That's great. So...can I ask why you're here?"

Winter arches a brow. "You said I could come talk to you."

Will manages not to gape outright, but it's a close thing. This...isn't exactly what he'd meant, but better Will's kitchen than a murder scene, right? Somehow he doesn't think the two are about to get confused.

"Brought your gun back, too," Winter adds, tilting his head at the kitchen counter. Will really wants to check it over, make sure it hasn't been fired in the past week, but he's a little distracted by the plastic bag sitting next to it: small, opaque, with the green logo of a DC doughnut chain printed on the front.

"And the bag?"

Another shrug. "You wanted to know what I was taking from them."

He...really does not want to look, but he sort of has to, and it isn't as if he hasn't seen worse. As Will edges cautiously into the kitchen, Buster finally decides no petting will be forthcoming and puts all four paws back on the ground, trotting out to join the others. Winter just sits, watching quietly as Will hooks a finger in the top of the bag like something might jump out at him the moment he peers inside.

He's expecting a putrid, week-old curl of flesh, but the strip of skin lying flat inside is still oozing blood.

"That's--" _Fresh_ , he nearly says, until what he's seeing truly hits him. "That's the Hydra symbol," he says, dumbfounded. It's not anything he's seen recently; he doesn't usually work cases involving hate crimes or supremacy groups, and even most extremists tend to give the memory of Hydra a wide berth. "Did someone have you hunting Neo-Nazis?"

"I guess...?"

Will stares. "You...don't know what a Neo-Nazi is."

"I know what a Hydra is," Winter offers helpfully.

"Jesus." Will scrubs the hand that hasn't touched any creepy bags over his face. He's so out of his depth here. This guy needs help--serious psychiatric help--and the only person Will would even consider calling in isn't someone he'd care to put at risk. Hannibal is a lot of things--fearsomely intelligent and level-headed in a crisis--but Will can't picture him in a fight. Violence just seems beneath him somehow. "Did they send you out again?" he asks through his fingers, hand still cupping his mouth. "To kill?"

Winter shakes his head. "Handler," he says with a nod at the bag. "Been thinking about what you said. Whether I wanted to go back or not. I think something must've happened to the chair the last time they moved it; I've been malfunctioning for a while. I figured...I dunno. Why not, right? So I pulled my trackers and waited for my handler to make a move."

Groping blindly for a chair, Will sinks down across from Winter with ice crawling through his guts. Malfunctioning? _Trackers?_ What the hell has been done to this guy?

"Don't worry," Winter says suddenly, with such heartbreaking earnestness Will wants to call Buster back in and shove the dog right into Winter's arms. "I wouldn't lead 'em back here. Been watching for a while now to make sure."

"That's...that's fine," Will assures him. His temples are throbbing now, and it's got nothing to do with the approaching storm. "Just...trackers? Where?" he insists at Winter's amiable nod.

"Arm," Winter says, shrugging his left shoulder--the metal one, so that's probably all right, but-- "Thigh," he adds, tapping his right leg, and then-- _Christ_ \--the right side of his torso, just under his ribs. "Not sure where this one started out; guess it probably moved. Had a hell of a time finding it."

Now that he's looking, there's a wet patch spreading across Winter's hoodie that's a darker red than the rest, a matching one on his leg.

Will takes a deep, slow breath. "Do you trust me?" Winter looks _surprised_. "Because I really need you to trust me and not hurt anyone, okay?"

Shifting warily in his chair, Winter asks, "Why?"

Because he needs far more help than Will can give him, than Will's even equipped to give him; because for once in his life Will actually has cavalry _to_ call in, and that scares him probably as much as it does Winter.

"It's okay," Will promises, finding a smile he hopes is reassuring. "I just need to call a friend."

***

" _Hello, Will_ ," Hannibal answers on the third ring. " _What can I do for you_?"

"Actually, uh...sorry to bother you, but I do have kind of a big favor to ask," Will says, tucking his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls down a glass and fills it with water. He nearly fishes his trusty bottle of aspirin from his coat pocket before he remembers it's a blood thinner. That's probably not a good idea right now, considering. "Feel free to say no, but I've got a bit of a situation here--someone in need of your professional services, in your old job capacity."

" _Are you certain you shouldn't take them to a hospital_?" Hannibal asks with barely any pause for thought.

Will glances over and finds Winter watching him with a slightly cocked head, eyes curious and alert. He looks so much like one of Will's pack, Will briefly--very briefly--considers patting his head.

"Not to sound like bad movie dialog, but I don't think that's an option. He's not--" He can't say Winter's not dangerous, because he manifestly _is_. And he's no innocent bystander; he's a murderer, plain and simple. Except it isn't simple, not at all. "Well, it's complicated. Like I said, I understand if you can't get involved, but...if you could keep this between us either way--"

" _I'll bring my emergency kit. Is there anything you need me to pick up on the way_?"

"No, I think we're good," Will says, shoulders slumping in relief. "Thanks for this, by the way. I...didn't know who else to call."

_Jack_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully, but that's the voice of his common sense, not his conscience.

" _Always a pleasure to help a friend_ ," Hannibal replies. " _I'll be there within an hour_."

Warmed by Hannibal's response, Will's still smiling a little foolishly to himself when he puts down his phone, only to start when he remembers the time. "I hope he's done with appointments for the day," he mutters, chewing on his lower lip. It's only a little after four, and Hannibal usually sees him much later for their impromptu sessions, but it's possible Hannibal is making an exception for him in more ways than one.

"You called a doctor?" Winter asks, oddly bemused.

"Yeah, sorry-- _that_ is a little above my pay grade," he says, waving a hand at Winter's bloodstained hoodie.

"I'm fine," Winter says, dismissive.

"You're bleeding. That's not fine."

Winter blinks. "It'll get better?"

"Or it'll get infected, and then where will you be? Listen, just let us patch you up," Will insists, raising his voice as he heads out of the kitchen, detouring into the front room to close the door before heading down the hall to raid the medicine cabinet. "Whatever you did to yourself, this is not the time to play macho. Anyway, you'll set a bad example for the dogs," he adds, keeping his tone purposefully light as he pulls out the rubbing alcohol, gauze pads and tape.

"You patch them up too?" Winter asks, still in the kitchen from the sound of his voice. Will relaxes just a little at hearing proof Winter hasn't just slipped out the back.

"If they need it," he replies, eyeing a bottle of Vicodin he's had long enough he can't remember why he has it. He should probably--well, he should probably throw it out, but he'll wait to see what Hannibal brings.

Winter hasn't moved when he returns carrying what supplies he's been able to scrounge and a stack of towels, faded but clean. Should he be boiling water? He has no idea what Hannibal's going to need, and it's a bit too late to ask. If he knows Hannibal, the man's already on the road.

"Are you hungry?" he asks instead, shrugging out of his jacket and leaving it draped across a chair back.

Apparently this is a question that requires careful consideration. Will finds himself wondering if it's too soon to ask just who the hell had this guy, because he's seen that reaction in some of his dogs, who won't even look at food when it's offered because they've been chased away from it too many times.

"If you're cooking," Winter says at last. "Sure."

Will peers into his fridge, then his cupboards. He hears the rustle of the gauze pack being opened, the faint scrape of the bottle of rubbing alcohol being uncapped, but he doesn't turn to look, giving Winter a bit of privacy as he goes to work on himself yet again. The rip of surgical tape is loud in the kitchen's stillness.

"Right," Will says. "Unless you want leftover Chinese, we're having breakfast for dinner."

Winter has no complaints. Will's depressingly aware that he wasn't expecting any. A little more alarming is how the guy packs it away. He's neat about it, but he inhales Will's indifferent cooking like it's one of Hannibal's extravagant feasts. If Winter hasn't gone back to his...handler? Just how has he been feeding himself this last week? Or has he?

Will cautiously scrambles up some more eggs and plates the remaining pancakes, but while that stays down too, he doesn't want to push his luck. "I can make more later if you feel up to it," he offers.

"It's the metabolism," Winter agrees.

Taking their empty plates to the sink, Will nods in sympathy. "Mine was pretty high as a kid too. Always the skinniest kid in class. Will you be all right to stay here if I go to the store later?" His hands tighten on the dish he's washing, suddenly, consciously aware that while he's taking things one step at a time, he has no intention of turning Winter in or even showing him the door. Wherever he's been, someone should have stepped in long ago. It looks like that someone will just have to be Will.

He can practically feel Winter's eyes heavy on the back of his neck.

"You don't mind my staying?"

"Hey, somebody's got to keep you out of trouble, right?" Will jokes, glancing back with an encouraging smile.

Winter nods once, a measure of tension falling from his shoulders. "Und--" He stops himself with a frown and shakes his head. "Got it."

Will stares, wondering at that odd moment of self-censorship, until the excited barking of the dogs distracts him. Arching his brows, he abandons the dishes and goes to dry his hands. Either Hannibal managed to beat the worst of rush hour traffic, or he drove like a demon to get here. Considering how cryptic Will's request must have seemed, it's probably a little of both.

Winter goes still again, faint smile melting from his face as he lifts his head, listening intently.

"That's probably my friend," Will says, already heading for the front of the house. "Just stay here, okay? Everything's fine."

Winter settles reluctantly, turning in his chair to stare after him. Will's inexpressibly grateful that Hannibal is only showy in his trappings. His patient reserve is probably just what Will needs to set a fugitive assassin at ease.

He opens the door at the first knock. Hannibal's waiting on the other side with a grave expression and a different black bag than his usual. He seems to have come alone.

"Are you all right?" is Hannibal's first question, eyes dipping to give Will a quick once-over.

"I'm fine," Will's quick to assure him, the corner of his mouth tipping up wryly. He is a former cop; he can take care of himself. "I can't say the same for my guest, though. Look, before we get started, just...I don't really know the whole story, but I can tell you this guy's been through a lot. So if he seems...odd--"

"I'm well acquainted with interesting personalities," Hannibal promises, squaring his shoulders with a nod. "Lead on."

Winter still hasn't moved from his place at the table, and when they walk back to join him, his eyes flick cautiously from Will to Hannibal. The instant change in his bearing, from battle-ready to relaxed, takes Will by surprise. When he glances back, Hannibal looks just as confused as Will feels--or, well, his brows are slightly arched, lips parted a millimeter on unvoiced questions. Jesus, when did he get so good at reading those micro-expressions? He hopes he hasn't been staring.

"Hey, uh, Winter? This is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Dr. Lecter, this is Winter."

"A pleasure to meet you, Winter," Hannibal says as he sets his classic black doctor's bag on the kitchen table. Winter's eyes cut to it briefly before snapping back to Hannibal. "I understand you've run into some trouble recently. Will you allow me to assist you?"

A tiny smile tugs at Winter's mouth, there and gone, but the faint trace of humor in his eyes remains. "Told him I didn't need the vet," he tells Hannibal, tilting his head at Will.

The arch of Hannibal's brows grows more pronounced. "Am I to take it you're Will's newest stray?"

"Rescue," Winter corrects him, deadpan.

Will opens his mouth and shuts it again, going over every single one of their conversations, brief as they've been, and realizing the guy is serious. Hannibal half-turns to shoot Will a look, eyes hooded, like he can't decide whether to be amused or...something. Worried, probably. And then his mouth twitches.

Oh, God. Unholy delight in Will's dumbfounded floundering has apparently won out.

"Of course," Hannibal agrees smoothly. "My mistake. You're in good hands, though. Will takes excellent care of all his rescues."

Will groans, wishing the floor would open beneath his feet and swallow him up. It's a pretty old farmhouse. It could happen, right?

"Now," Hannibal says briskly. "Let's see the damage, please."

"It's fine," Winter says, though he's already rising to his feet, in no obvious pain. "Thigh's already healed. Torso's maybe got another day. Well within parameters."

"Parameters?" Hannibal echoes, wavering on his feet then stepping conscientiously back as Will goes to help Winter shrug his jacket off. Will's not sure how Winter would react to being crowded by the both of them, and he's glad Hannibal's on the same page. "Have you been trained to diagnose acceptable damage to yourself? Or did others study that--"

Passing his ball cap off to Will, Winter reaches his left hand across himself to fist in the bottom of his hoodie and pulls his right arm through, tugging the whole thing off in one move that doesn't require him to stretch his injured side too much. He peels off the bandage he taped on next, balling the reddened gauze up in his hand for lack of anywhere to drop it.

It's some consolation that Will isn't the only one shocked silent, but Hannibal recovers first.

"--about you," he finishes quietly, even as his eyes are tracking over a network of horror Will can only guess at until he steps around to Winter's front.

Winter's back is surprisingly smooth, considering the damage to his psyche; Will was expecting a lot more scars. The area around Winter's shoulder more than makes up for it. The skin is flushed, threads of scarring creeping out like traces of infection across his left pectoral and scapula, as if his body had tried to reject the metal grafted onto it. _Into_ it.

It's not just the arm. Winter's whole shoulder has been replaced, and Will's never even heard of a prosthetic this extensive or this advanced. Maybe that Stark guy could do it, but something tells him Winter isn't just another pet project for a bored billionaire.

The wound under his lowest ribs angles down towards his navel, sullen red at its edges and worryingly deep. It seems to have stopped bleeding for the most part, and Will can't be sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Hannibal's fascinated surprise isn't giving him much to go on.

"Lots of studies," Winter says, comfortable with being stared at like people do it all the time. Probably they do. "Needed to see how much damage I could take before I was no longer operational."

Hannibal seizes on the word instantly. "Operational? Do you believe yourself to be a machine?"

Considering the arm, it seems like a reasonable assumption, but Winter shakes his head. "Weapon."

_You're not a weapon_ , Will draws breath to insist, but Hannibal's face does a complicated thing even Will can't decipher, eyes flicking down to Winter's hand, over to Will, and back to Winter's face.

"One that's been aimed and fired recently."

"That wasn't him," Will protests, reaching to grab Hannibal's arm and losing his courage at the last instant. He's never sure where the line is with Hannibal, the flashing 'keep away' sign of his reserved manner constantly at odds with the leeway he grants Will at every turn. "I mean, yes, he's the guy Jack's looking for, but that wasn't by choice. You can't--"

"Will," Hannibal begins, in a gentle tone that instantly puts his hackles up. It's the sort of tone people like to deliver bad news in, and damn it, Will had _promised_ \--

"Hey," Winter cuts in, ducking his head like he expects a reprimand. "It's okay. Your friend's not gonna say anything."

Hannibal shuts his mouth with a perplexed frown. Will shakes his head. "What makes you say that?"

Winter shrugs. "Tailed your people around for a while. I mean, c'mon. You're FBI," he says deliberately, belaboring a point that shouldn't need making. "Needed to know who you were reporting back to. Your friend here's solid, though," he says, ignoring Will's consternation and Hannibal's blank-faced surprise as he tips his head in Hannibal's direction. "Good man to have in your corner if things go south."

Hannibal nods solemnly back, bemused. "I...thank you for the vote of confidence. And as I was about to say, while there may be some question whether I can claim you as my patient, I do consider everything said to fall under the tenets of confidentiality. I believe I promised to keep this between us, yes?"

Heaving a deep sigh, Will reaches up to rub tiredly at his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry," he adds with a sheepish grimace. "New territory for me. Guess I need to brush up on my aiding and abetting etiquette."

Hannibal's smile is indulgent. "You're doing fine. Why don't I get started here," he offers, shooting a questioning glance at Winter, who nods, "while you see if you can find something for our friend to wear when we're done."

"Tall order," Will says with a grin, "pun intended. But I'll see what I can do."

He has the strangest feeling he's being herded out so those two can have a hushed conversation, but the joke's on them; his clothes are literally in the next room.

All the same, he has no idea what he can offer Winter by way of clothes. The guy's shoulders are even broader than Hannibal's, and that's saying something.

***

As Will walks away, Hannibal waits for the inevitable exchange of threats or promises of secrets given in trade for silence, but 'Winter' says nothing. Nor does he offer up the particularly knowing smirk Hannibal finds so distasteful. He arches a brow after a moment and nods at the table, asking, "Want me to lie down?"

Will's dining table is of good, solid construction, but Hannibal makes a face regardless. "Towels first," he decides and waves Winter off when the man tries to assist in spreading them out for him to lie on. "May I ask when you followed me? I had no idea anyone was there."

"Thursday night," Winter says, easing up onto the table and lying back without hesitation. "Got curious, so I came back on Saturday. Should've guessed you were a doctor," he says wryly.

Hannibal pauses in the act of going through his surgical kit, fingers hesitating over the scalpels he keeps honed to razor sharpness. He's perfectly aware of what he is and what he does. He knows exactly what that says about Winter's previous experience of medical practitioners. What he is not is sentimental. He doesn't find blind trust to be particularly charming, and he's never let awareness of others' past traumas stay his hand.

What does stop him, much the same as it had with Abigail, is threefold: the novelty of informed trust, Winter's obvious usefulness, and the clear connection he has with Will--whose trust, hard-won, is far more charming than it has any right to be.

He leaves the scalpels alone, retrieves his suture kit and examines a vial of local anesthetic to be certain it's still good. "Any known drug sensitivities?"

"None."

"That you recall?" Hannibal presses. Having decided to aid the man to the best of his ability, it'd be terribly embarrassing to make such a basic error.

Winter shakes his head. "None."

"All right, then. You should feel some initial discomfort, but tell me immediately if you experience an itching sensation or shortness of breath."

"Huh," Winter says as Hannibal injects him in several places around the wound site, checking his watch out of habit to give the area time to numb. "That feels strange."

"Uncomfortable?"

"Just strange."

"No poking," Will advises as he slips back into the kitchen with a T-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a frustrated grimace. Winter's right hand stills before it's done more than twitch in that direction. "How's it going?"

"Good so far," Hannibal replies. "I can tell you more after the anesthetic takes--"

The way Winter's expression shifts from realization to cultivated ignorance is what clues him in. Hannibal narrows his eyes. "When you said no sensitivities...."

He understands at a glance why Will felt compelled to take this particular rescue in. He's never seen a look quite so hangdog on anyone bipedal, barring Will himself.

Will glances back and forth between them. "Okay, I'm missing something."

"Drugs don't work on you, do they?" Hannibal asks Winter, getting an apologetic headshake in reply. "Then getting this over with quickly is probably for the best."

He makes a thorough examination, ignoring the silent, sympathetic cringing from the other side of the table as Will joins them in the spirit of solidarity. Winter never flinches, doesn't make a sound as Hannibal disinfects the wound, debriding the areas where lint and debris have attached and been missed. "What precisely happened here?" Hannibal has to ask, putting a few stitches into deep muscle cuts that look suspiciously like they're pulling back together on their own. "I'd think you were stabbed, but an ordinary assailant wouldn't be so...exploratory."

"Removing my trackers. I was able to jam them for a while, but if I'm not going back, it needed to be permanent."

"Go back where?" Hannibal asks as he pulls the lips of the slice together with the first stitch.

"Hydra."

Hannibal looks up at Winter's face sharply. "Hydra was disbanded in the Forties."

Across from him, Will hunches an awkward shoulder. "It's not unusual for one terrorist group to resurrect another that's historically shared their ideals. We've probably got a new one for the watch list; the fact that their members are so highly-placed may be what gave them the guts to use _that_ name."

"And you were working for them?" Hannibal asks, attention still fixed on Winter. Will seems puzzled too.

"I thought you were being sent to kill Hydra," Will says. "I mean...that tattoo you brought me. Wait. You said that was from your handler?"

Winter frowns, as if their questions aren't quite connecting up with the world as he sees it. "I'm an asset," he says reluctantly. "I follow orders. Until I decided I didn't want to anymore," he adds, eyes skating briefly to Will. "Someone wanted to clean house. I don't mind killing Hydra."

It's on the tip of Hannibal's tongue to congratulate him for good critical thinking skills, but he refrains for the sake of Will's comfort. "And you had tracking devices implanted?" he asks instead, bending his head to his task once more.

"Not the first time I've escaped," Winter admits, "just the first time I knew what I was doing. Still made it all the way to New York last time."

There's something wistful in his tone that's uncomfortably familiar: the voice of someone who's fought their way back home only to find everything changed.

"Well," Hannibal says as he ties off the last stitch, ruefully wishing all his patients had been as stoic. "You're probably better off sticking close. If they found you in New York before, that's likely the first place they'll look--and if we're dealing with Hydra emulators, the proximity to Quantico and DC may prove useful."

Winter nods thoughtfully as he sits up, not seeming to notice Will's hand on his back. Used to being manhandled; little to no concern for mitigating pain. None of this is painting a very pretty picture, and Hannibal has to wonder what sort of resources this Hydra rebranding has at their fingertips, how much alarm the disappearance of their pet killer will cause--and whether they'll be clever enough to question the man sent to profile that killer as to his whereabouts.

***

The soldier knows he's malfunctioning, has been since his last waking and trip to the chair, but no matter how many times he rolls the facts over in his brain, he can't quite see how what he's doing is wrong. Crazy, sure--having slipped his leash and turned on everything he knows, staying in one place is just asking for trouble--but not _wrong_. There's no weird itch at the back of his skull when he's given an order, no tingle along his spine and in the bones and gears of his hands whenever anyone gets too close. His orders are laughable anyway, all _could you pass the salt_ , and _see if those things fit_ , and--

"Why don't you have a seat?" Graham says, frowning a little even as he's nodding at the couch. Mixed signals. Maybe Graham doesn't want soldiers on the furniture, or maybe he's already fed up with having a _brain-dead assassin lurking in the corners, how the fuck do you stand it_? "You sure you're okay?"

Or maybe he's just concerned.

"'M fine," the soldier insists. He sinks down gingerly and tries to remain sitting at the couch's edge, poised and alert, but the battered cushions all but pull him in. He's leaning back before he knows it, shoulders melting into the soft give of foam, the unspooling of tension a distant relief.

"Still. You should rest," Graham says, frown deepening. "You don't want to pull your stitches."

He wants to press at the edges of the wound, see how far the knitting has progressed now that his raw edges have been pulled back together, but he reins in the urge. Graham's got the worried look of a new handler who's been told what the soldier can do but doesn't quite believe it yet, but _not_ the look of a man who expects it to be his ass on the line if the soldier comes back with a few dings. His concern is for the soldier alone.

"Got it," he says, swallowing the rote _Understood_ that wants to escape. Graham's orders aren't really orders. He can choose to follow them or not.

Graham's half-smile comes paired with troubled eyes, but he nods once and disappears back into the kitchen where Lecter is still cleaning up.

"I can get that," Graham protests as he disappears from sight. "You don't have to--"

"It's no trouble." Lecter's voice is as smooth and steady as his hands had been splitting open a man's chest and scooping out his insides. It's the kind of unflappable competence that's a pleasure and a relief to work with, and it must put Graham at ease too, some of the skittishness fading from his voice as he replies.

"Still. I really appreciate you coming out," Graham says, going to open the back door as something scratches at the screen. "I'd, uh…offer you dinner, but I'm pretty sure that'd be closer to punishment than thanks. And I'd need to hit the grocery store first anyway, so…."

Tags jingle as one of the dogs shakes itself off. The short, sharp click of claws on the hardwood floors broadcasts its approach as the dog trots through the kitchen and out into the front room. It's the littlest one, with the brown patches and the white stripe down its nose, and it pricks up its floppy ears the instant it sees the soldier.

He steels himself for rough, snarling barks, for a lunge and the snap of teeth, but the dog dances over with a wiggly, ungainly gait, its entire back half swinging back and forth with each wag of its tail. He eyes it with deep suspicion as it lolls its tongue out to lick at its own muzzle, but it tucks its stubby back legs under it and sits down practically right on top of his boots, tail thumping the floor.

"Oh," Lecter says, his voice moving away. His feet make no sound on the tile. "You should have said. I'd have been happy to pick up something."

"Yeah, but I'm the one who has to cook it. Your usual fare's a bit beyond my capabilities in the kitchen, I'm afraid."

The dog's still staring. It'd done the same thing before, but this time it doesn't put its paws up on him; it just whines, nearly inaudible, and gives him a hopeful look that stirs up the shadows in the back of his head. The only dogs he knows how to deal with are working dogs, not to be distracted, but he's been watching Graham on and off for a week. He's got a pretty good idea what he's supposed to do, even if experience tells him he should be using his _left_ hand.

He reaches out with his right anyway, and damned if the dog doesn't shove its nose right up into his palm, tongue painting wet stripes across his wrist.

"On the contrary, I think you might surprise yourself with what you're capable of."

The soldier draws back, but the dog just takes that as an invitation, hopping up onto the couch to curl up beside him. Its little body presses hard against his thigh, its tail whacking him repeatedly. It's the shittiest guard dog the soldier's ever seen, but he can't quite ignore it and he doesn't _want_ to scold it. Being a guard dog's not all it's cracked up to be.

"Maybe with a lot of practice, but I don't think fine cuisine's really what the situation calls for," Graham scoffs with an audible smile. His voice comes closer. "He said he had a fast metabolism, but now I'm wondering if--"

Graham stops dead in the doorway, his eyes flicking from the soldier to the dog. The soldier freezes as well, fingers pausing in their ginger skritching; the dog stops kicking its foot in the air and rests its head on the soldier's knee, gazing soulfully at its master.

Graham's eyes narrow, but his mouth twitches like he's trying to trap a smile. "Your metabolism," he says, eyes tipping up to meet the soldier's again. "Did you mean it was human-fast or more like a mutant's healing factor?"

"It's enhanced, but I'm not a mutant." Weird. Either he or the dog is breaking the rules, but nobody's getting punished.

If he hadn't already decided cutting himself loose from Hydra was worth it, that alone would've convinced him.

"Hm." Lecter appears just behind Graham's shoulder, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "While not a licensed nutritionist, I believe I could come up with a meal plan to suit. One anyone could follow," he adds with a tiny curl of a smile as his eyes slide back to Graham.

"Hey, I'm not _totally_ hopeless in a kitchen. Just ask the--" Graham catches himself before he can finish that thought, wincing as he rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck. "Okay, bad example."

"I can fend for myself," the soldier offers, not wanting to be a burden. He hadn't expected a safe house, though Graham seems determined to offer him one. As for rescue, that word's been meaningless for so long--people don't _get_ rescued, not from Hydra and not from him--he hadn't even thought to consider it in relation to himself, not until now.

Although it does…echo, somewhere down deep in the black where he thinks his memories used to live.

Graham shakes his head. "It's probably better if you lay low for a while. Someone's bound to come looking for you, especially if they went to the trouble of tracking you before. We're pretty far out of the way out here, though, and the longer you stay hidden, the more likely they are to widen their search. With any luck, they'll miss you entirely."

Amusement wars briefly with approval in Lecter's eyes before he sobers. "Don't forget, Will…your reputation for sniffing out killers has been growing of late, and Miss Lounds has already outed you as Winter's profiler. If anyone should read her articles and come to ask the expert…."

"God, does that woman ever stop?" Graham mutters through clenched teeth.

The soldier glances back and forth between them, wondering why they're looking--or sort of half-looking, in Graham's case--at each other and not him. "Is this Lounds person a problem?"

"No!" Graham yelps, jerking his head back around to meet the soldier's eyes directly. "Not--not that kind of problem. She's not a threat; she's just an annoying tabloid journalist with no concept of privacy. Or basic human decency."

"Or manners," Lecter adds to the list, mouth pulled tight.

Sinking back into the couch cushions, the soldier chews that over. Even if Graham has to play by the FBI's rules, he knows for a fact that Lecter could take care of that kind of problem if he wanted to. So either there's a compelling reason for letting this Lounds character live, or else Lecter is…what? Holding out on Graham? Or else he's holding _back_.

He looks at Graham with new eyes, and maybe breathing a week of Hydra-free air has left him clearer-headed, because he can _see_ it now. Graham's no civilian, and he's crazy or gutsy enough to take in stray soldiers, so none of these things is the problem. He'd make a good field agent, has the mental flexibility not to see the job in black and white, where the bad guys kill and the good guys get killed. He just _wants_ it to be that easy, wants a reason and a purpose to cling to when things get complicated. He's still got lines he thinks he can draw and have them be respected.

The soldier's seen agents and techs wash out time after time when the cause stops being _enough_ , and they mostly lead short, miserable lives of constant paranoia. That's…not something he wants to see happen to Graham, who keeps dogs that don't bite and killers he doesn't ask to kill, who feeds his rescues and tells them to stay, because who else is going to take care of them?

His eyes flick to Lecter, and he doesn't nod, but he doesn't need to. He gets it. Lecter has made Graham his mission, and Graham's probably luckier in that than he knows, but an extra pair of eyes on the guy probably wouldn't go amiss, _considering_.

"So just Hydra, then," the soldier says, though he's not going to forget Lounds' name in a hurry. "I can handle that." Probably. If they don't send anyone who knows his triggers, that is. He plans to shoot first, worry about having his brains scrambled second. It's served him pretty well so far.

Graham doesn't protest this time, which is good. He's not dumb, just optimistic. The soldier kind of hopes he can stay that way for a while.

When the dog nudges at his arm, he takes a chance and runs a hand down its back, keeping one eye on Graham just in case. The dog drops its head back down onto his knee. Graham smiles.

Maybe he's getting the hang of this normal life thing after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Will doesn't honestly care one way or the other about animals on the furniture, but the dogs know they're not supposed to beg too pushily for attention with company. Some people have allergies, phobias, and Will tries to be respectful of that, even after all the time and effort he's spent in re-teaching his pack that humans can be good. He doesn't believe for one minute that Winter invited Buster up onto the couch, but he's not one to argue with results. Even though Winter keeps sneaking sidelong looks like he expects Will to start shouting or the dog to turn out to be a bomb, he slowly starts to relax when nothing bad happens. It's not the first time Will's had his faith in mankind reaffirmed by the healing power of dogs, but it may well be the most poignant.

Which is of course when his phone starts shrilling insistently. When he fishes it out of his back pocket, he's not even surprised to see Jack Crawford's name on the display.

"Jack," he says, hoping his grimace isn't audible in his voice. "What can I do for you?"

" _I need you in DC_ ," Jack says, foregoing pleasantries as usual. Will wonders idly how Jack's managed to stay in Hannibal's good graces as long as he has, but maybe Jack takes a different tone with people who aren't his employees.

"What's in DC?"

Winter's hand stills on Buster's back, eyes sharpening attentively.

" _A hit man, apparently_ ," Jack grumbles. " _We've got another body, but the MO's different. The others may have just been a job, but this one looks like he went three rounds with the Hulk before having his throat crushed. I need you to tell me if it's as personal as it looks or if this guy was just a damned good fighter_."

He doesn't ask why Jack doesn't get his own people's opinion on that. Jack _will_. It's just that Jack has a pathological need to cover every base, and now that he's got Will's imagination on speed dial, not consulting it makes Jack twitchy.

"All right," he says on autopilot, staring hard at Winter's left shoulder. "Where am I going?"

He hangs up after getting the address and just holds the phone for a moment before returning it to his pocket. He knows he ought to feel…something other than what he does. Conflicted, at the very least. He can't even blame it on the invasive sympathy of reading a scene. It's a different kind of empathy altogether that's keeping guilt and horror at bay.

"I'm guessing they found your handler," he says, nearly flinching at how loud his voice sounds in the waiting silence. "I mean…if that was the last…?"

Winter nods once. There's no gloating in his expression, no satisfaction, but he does look oddly pleased. "Guess I picked the right spot, then."

Will frowns, shaking his head in confusion. "The right spot for what? Did you want him to be found?" Maybe that makes sense to someone for whom killing is a job, not a passion, but that kill hadn't been on the clock. Shouldn't he have been trying to slip under the radar instead?

Winter just stares at him in surprise, eyes cutting to Hannibal as if waiting for the other rational person in the room to back him up. "Well…yeah. I mean…that's what I do."

Will tightens his mouth, trying to find the most diplomatic way to point out that killing doesn't have to be what Winter does anymore, but Winter just shrugs.

"It's not like it's hard to make someone dead. If you're high enough in the ranks, you can haze the newbies into doing it for you. Make it their first mission. Long as you're not wasting resources," he says as Will swallows back bile, ice prickling along his spine, "nobody cares.

"You send _me_ out," he says, the flippancy fading from his tone, "you're sending a message. You're reminding everybody you've got the biggest toys, and you're more than happy to use them."

"You're not a _toy_ ," Will insists hotly, the earnest need to punch something lighting a fire in his belly.

Winter's sharp grin is the opposite of agreement. "I'm the _best_ toy. The one they only dust off and bring out when they want to impress."

A fragile little teacup, Will thinks with a touch of nausea--but no. Jack's not Hydra, and Will's not having his identity stripped, forced into doing something he…it's not the same.

Winter's humorless smile gentles, like he can tell he's hit a nerve he didn't intend. Sitting back against the couch cushions, he adopts a more relaxed pose, though Will can see the tension's still there, constant readiness an integral part of him he can only hide, not release entirely.

"It's just scare tactics, really," Winter says without a trace of pride or smugness. "If you really want to make someone reexamine their life choices, you send out a gun that doesn't miss, doesn't rest, doesn't give up. Once word gets out that I've been deployed, the rats start jumping ship; the best an opposition party can hope for is to keep it hushed up for as long as possible. 'S why I was still there when you did your thing--had to make sure no one sent a cleaning crew. No good leaving a message if no one's going to see it."

Hannibal hums a wordless note of understanding. "So the displays you left--they weren't the aftermath; they were the point. A message to others within the organization, their public discovery a sign of power in itself. These are people with no fear of being caught." Winter nods amiably, untroubled by the implications. "Then the message you were sending this time must have been to your former handlers."

"Mostly," Winter agrees with a tiny quirk of a smile. "See, it's one thing for me to go picking off the disaffected, but if I start dropping Hydra's loyal troops? Either they've lost control over me or someone else has _gained_ control over me, and that's not going to look good for the guys at the top either way. They're going to want me back, sure--but if they try it," he promises, voice hardening, "I'm going to chum the waters until the sharks start circling. We'll see how many arms the squid has left at the end."

Will opens his mouth and closes it again. That…makes a terrifying amount of sense, though it worries him more that this pack of thugs has enough members to have split into factions. How the hell have they gone unnoticed this long if there are that many of them?

"You said--making sure no one sent a cleaning crew," Will says slowly, thinking back on the case notes for the scenes he hadn't been called out to. "Is that why there were three bodies the second time?" Mark Benson--wealthy, successful, head of a software company much sought-after by military contractors--had been the only expected occupant of the penthouse hotel room he'd been discovered in. The two brawny men, still unnamed, found with him had caused no end of speculation, both in the newspapers and amongst the hotel staff. "Wait, did _you_ call Housekeeping?" Someone, presumably Benson, had arranged for fresh sheets to be delivered in an hour: hence the rumors.

Winter shrugs. "Needed to get the ball rolling before anyone noticed the first team not calling in."

Will shakes his head. The lawyers had been timed perfectly as well, taken out after the rest of the office had gone home but just before the building's janitorial staff began their rounds. "Just…where were you, anyway? Last week, I mean, with the lawyers." He half expects Winter to say he was hiding in the vents, except this is real life, not a summer blockbuster.

"Roof across the way," Winter says with a brief head-tilt. "Had you in my scope. Thought you guys might've been the cleaners until you started walking through the scene; didn't catch the whole thing, but I saw you tell your boss that wasn't my design. That got me thinking," he says while Will's adding lip-reading to his mental list of Winter's accomplishments, "because I knew you were right. And then I started wondering what _was_ my design and realized I didn't know. Thought maybe you would."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Will says with a sigh. "And sorry we can't talk more, but Jack's going to be on my case if I'm too much longer." At least it's only a half hour's drive, maybe an hour with the evening rush, though the worst traffic will be leaving DC, not driving to it. "Are you okay here by yourself? Sorry," he says again, his gaze fixing this time on Hannibal's left shoulder, "I meant to get stuff for dinner--"

"I could see to that, if you'll permit," Hannibal offers. Will's eyes jerk up, startled; Hannibal's hopeful expression perfectly matches his wording and tone. He's not just making polite noises; Will's not sure why he's surprised. "And perhaps clothing?"

Will glances over at Winter, who ought to look ridiculous in sweats that barely fit him and a plain grey tee that manifestly does _not_ …except it really drives home why Winter had classified himself as a weapon without a flicker of doubt.

"I can't impose on you like that," Will protests, embarrassingly aware of what Hannibal's done for him already. To just walk into an unknown situation where a doctor is required, just because Will had asked--to not turn around and leave the instant he realized he was in a room with a killer, however reluctant--it's more than Will feels comfortable asking of anyone, but Hannibal hadn't hesitated.

"It's no imposition," Hannibal assures him, leaning fractionally closer to emphasize his point though his hands link themselves politely behind his back. "It's an offer I'm pleased to make."

Will looks again to Winter--the urge to silently plead for backup is infectious today, it seems--and finds him watching them with the artless fascination of a child staring at zoo animals.

"Okay, yes," Will caves, reaching for his wallet. "Thank you. Let me give you my card--"

"It's no trouble," Hannibal tries to say, but Will's not having any of it.

"I insist. Just go easy on the tailoring," he adds with a lopsided grin, doubting very much Hannibal has ever set foot in any of the places Will normally buys his clothes.

Hannibal allows a tiny smile to peek through, eyes glittering with mischief when Will dares a glance. "Must I? I'm sure he'd knock them dead in something sharp."

Will just stares until a muffled snort from the couch breaks him of his paralysis. "Was that a pun? Did you just make a pun? You? Dr. Lecter? Punning?"

"I think you broke him," Winter notes, face perfectly composed once more, suspiciously so. Of course _he'd_ appreciate murder humor.

"Right," Will says, a breath of laughter escaping as he shakes his head. "I'm leaving before this descends into slapstick. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but…."

"I can stay for a time," Hannibal offers. "If you do learn when you'll return, let me know and I'll see that dinner is prepared."

"Thanks," Will says again, blinking a little like he's just stepped from a dark room into sunlight. The offer is just so domestic, and while he's always prided himself on his self-sufficiency, always gotten by just fine with the dogs for company, he's only human. The idea of another person waiting for him at home is an attractive one, even if it's just a friend.

He realizes as he climbs into his car, the dogs milling uncertainly at not being shooed back into the house first before Hannibal calls them to heel, that he's going to have to get used to that anyway. There's Winter to consider, and though he very much doubts dinner on the table is ever going to be a thing, the idea of someone else kicking around the place is…not the imposition he might have expected. Maybe the not-quite-idle thoughts he's been having of offering Abigail a place to stay when she--

"Shit," he breathes, hands tightening on the wheel. Abigail. He's supposed to go see her on Friday, and he'd offered on his last visit to let her come out and meet the dogs. Now he's not so sure that's a good idea. He doesn't actually think Winter would hurt her, but meeting too many strangers in too short a time might undermine whatever feeling of safety Winter's clawed together for himself, and he can't ask Abigail to spare one killer when her own father hadn't been.

He's still wracking his brain for some way to juggle all the facets of his suddenly-full life when he pulls in at the edge of a police cordon. The area's a little run down, full of mostly older businesses, yellow tape marking off the entrance to an empty lot recently bulldozed and cleared. Most of the lot is blocked from view by hurricane fencing hung with banners advertising a construction company and a new mixed-use center. On the sidewalk outside a five-story office building, a pale woman in business casual speaks with two men in nice suits, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Across the street is a doughnut shop with a familiar logo.

Will hasn't even quite gotten out of his car before Jack comes charging up, steam practically pouring from his ears. Instinct urges Will to stay where he is, keep the door between them as a shield, but he masters himself with a deep breath. He knows how to deal with Jack in a rage. He's just not sure what brought this one on; he's not even that late.

"Make this quick," Jack orders, jerking his head in a mute request for Will to follow, immediately. "We're losing jurisdiction."

"Losing--what?" Will blurts as he slams the car door, stretching his legs to catch up as Jack wheels around. "To who?"

"SHIELD," Jack growls, making a beeline for the break in the fence.

"SHIELD?" For a minute Will's dumbfounded, as offended as if mall security had tried to kick them out, before he remembers that SHIELD's only new to the public eye. Learning to bend to a higher power had been a rough transition for all the letter agencies. "What's their interest in all this?" Winter's targets hadn't been nobodies, but they hadn't exactly been world leaders, either, and he was hardly the only assassin operating in the US. If they knew Winter had been working for a hate group, possibly a terrorist group--

"They're claiming the latest victim was one of their agents."

Will nearly stumbles as that sinks in. Winter's handler--a Neo-Nazi with Hydra sympathies--had been working for SHIELD? He feels like he should report this, but--

" _C'mon,_ " Winter says in memory with that weirdly gentle reserve, like a doting parent who's not going to be the bad guy and explain there's no Santa Claus. " _You're FBI. Needed to know who you were reporting back to_."

Suddenly Will feels cold. Just how deep does this rabbit hole go?

"And is that reason enough for them to pull jurisdiction?" Will asks cautiously as they near the gap.

"If you ask them, it--"

"You can't go in there," a man says as he steps in Jack's path, holding out an arm. "Thought we covered that."

He's a big guy, maybe in his late thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and a rough fuzz of stubble on his square jaw. He's in a dark navy STRIKE uniform and wears the bored, frustrated look of a man working way below his pay grade. Sparring with Jack's probably been the high point of his day.

"This is Will Graham," Jack says tightly, "the profiler on the last case."

Dark eyes cut to him and flick deliberately down then up again. The STRIKE agent's expression doesn't change. "Didn't do a hell of a job, then, did you?"

"Rumlow," someone calls to Will's right. The STRIKE agent doesn't step aside, but he does keep his mouth closed as another man in the same uniform jogs up. "We're loaded and ready to go."

"Loaded?" Will echoes before Jack can force his clenched jaw to unlock. "You moved the body?"

" _Our agent_ has been retrieved," Rumlow corrects while simultaneously dismissing him, turning back to Jack. "Agent Sitwell will contact you about turning over your evidence. If you want to give him your profile," he adds, glancing disinterestedly back at Will, "you can do it then."

Jack's not the only one having to keep a tight rein on his temper; Will can practically see Rumlow's air quotes in the way he says _profile_.

"Thank you, Agent Rumlow," Jack grits out. "I look forward to discussing with him the handling of this case."

Rumlow snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up in an arrogant grin. "You do that," he says as he turns, walking away with a swagger in his step.

On Will's left, Jack breathes in slowly through his nose, letting it out all at once through still-gritted teeth. Katz, Price and Zeller creep up belatedly, looking less than enthused at dealing with Jack after this kind of setback. Will can't say he blames them.

"What the hell was that, Jack?" Katz asks at last. The glare she casts at Rumlow's back is decidedly unfriendly. "Since when does being a SHIELD agent give them dibs on an entire case?"

"Since today, apparently. Word came straight from Prurnell," Jack admits grudgingly. "She couldn't give me any details, just that the agent in question was working on something sensitive when he died."

Will swallows the sick lump that wants to lodge in his throat. _Something sensitive_. He's always respected Kade Prurnell's hardnosed dedication to the law, the whole law, and nothing but the law, but now he has to wonder. Was she just repeating back what she'd been told by someone else, or did she _know_?

Forget how deep. Just how high does this rabbit hole _climb_?

***

Will doesn't argue when Jack tells the team to meet him back at the office. He's got questions of his own, only he's not sure how to ask them or if it's safe to try, and that leaves him shaken: the fear itself even more than the reasons behind it. He's spent the majority of his life cautiously feeling out a line he can't even see, trying to assure himself on which side of crazy his imagination and empathy falls. Paranoia isn't something he's ever particularly struggled with--a well-founded reluctance to trust, yes--and he can't help wondering if this is how those jittery souls who see conspiracies in every shadow must feel.

He takes a minute after he parks to just sit in his car and breathe. He reminds himself that They, if there is a They, aren't even out to get _him_. If a conspiracy does exist, it's aimed at a man who can spout off deadly social politics with ease and speaks of murder like a hazing ritual, but treats a small, friendly dog like a hazardous and unfamiliar lesson. Who laughs at stupid jokes and tries to look innocent after. An ordinary guy who's had everything ordinary taken away, who's going to have to discover it all over again, like relearning how to walk once a fracture heals.

Will's hands curl tight around the steering wheel as he takes another deep breath and deliberately wipes the anger from his expression. The others may not have his imagination, but they're not blind. He can't start acting out of character now.

Jack's already behind his desk, sorting through folders by the time Will joins him, the other three hard on his heels. "Did we get photos?" Jack asks, looking up briefly to glance past Will.

"Well, we _did_ have photos," Price begins with a grimace.

Katz steps up then, holding out her phone. "They won't be the best quality, but better than nothing," she says. "Managed to sneak a few while you had them busy."

Jack nods once, thumbing quickly through the gallery before handing the phone across to Will. "See anything new?"

The man in the photos doesn't look like a monster, but Will's all too aware that they rarely do. Under the blood and bruises, the dead man has a wholesome look: tall, blond, the one eye not swollen shut a piercing blue. Typical. Sitting propped up with his back to the fence and his shoulder mashed into the side of a battered blue dumpster, he would have been invisible from the street but in full view of the upper levels of the building next door. Will thinks of the woman he'd seen being interviewed on the sidewalk, imagines her glancing outside partway through the day and seeing a man, dismissing him at first as drunk or homeless, until she finally realizes he hasn't moved in hours.

"Do we have a name?" he asks absently as he reaches the end of the collection, flicking back through more slowly. "Where was the skin patch taken from this time?"

"Nowhere obvious," Zeller says, leaning in to look at Katz' phone over Will's arm. "See that nice, chunky watch our killer left behind?" he asks, flicking back two photos and zooming in with thumb and forefinger while Will tries not to crawl out of his skin at the sudden proximity. "It was under the band there. Still. He takes the wallet, takes the cell phone, leaves a fifteen hundred dollar watch behind. Whoever he is, he's not hurting for cash."

"The missing wallet's probably the only reason we got a look at this one," Price joins in, face scrunched in annoyance. "As fast as SHIELD showed up, they must've been waiting for a call, but the officers on the scene said there was nothing. No missing persons report, no alerts of a missing agent. Zero."

"Will," Jack says impatiently, nodding at the phone as silence settles over the room like an order was given.

He's never looked at a crime scene before and known the person behind it. It sets him off-balance from the start. For once he's not stepping into anyone's shoes; he's standing apart, a spectator, as Winter fights…not for his life. He doesn't care about his life. He's shaky on the concept of freedom. He's cutting himself loose--literally, and his handler knows it, targeting those tender places where blood sheens wetly in the dark--and all he wants is to not drag a trail of death behind him when he bolts.

Not to safety. To the promise--the possibility--of answers.

Drawing a deep breath in through his nose, Will shuts his eyes and shakes his head, hard. "Sorry, Jack," he says, handing Katz back her phone. "Maybe if I had the whole scene. I can tell you this guy fought hard and fought dirty, but if he was a SHIELD agent, I guess they're trained for that. It feels like a confrontation, but whether it was a job or not…?" He hunches a shoulder. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Jack doesn't like that, but before he can come out and say so, his desk phone starts ringing. The way his mouth tightens as he picks it up, Will would bet he already knows who it is. "Crawford." His eyes narrow. "All right. Have him escorted up."

"Is SHIELD already here?" Katz demands, staring openmouthed in offended incredulity.

"Your tax dollars at work," Jack grumbles, dropping the receiver into its cradle and sitting tiredly back in his chair. "Box it up, people. This is out of our hands for now."

Will nods, about to shuffle out with the others and gather up his meagre notes before Jack stops him.

"Will. Have a seat." He nods at the rightmost of the two chairs before his desk. It isn't an invitation.

Will glances at the others and receives an encouraging smile from Katz, but he's swiftly abandoned to his fate. "Still not psychic, Jack," he reminds as he sinks into the chair indicated.

"Not looking for one."

"So what are you looking for?"

"I'm hoping you'll let me know when you see it."

Will frowns. Jack's furious, but more than that, he's dissatisfied. Though he remains leaned back in his chair, the arrhythmic tapping of his fingers on his chair arms suggest he's impatient for the agent to arrive. Even if they're about to lose the case, the intensity of Jack's stare as he watches the door says he means to thoroughly interrogate the man coming to relieve them of duty.

Two short raps echo from the hallway, and one of the trainees opens the door at Jack's invitation, saying, "Agent Sitwell to see you, sir."

The man who steps in doesn't paint a very intimidating picture at first glance. Bald on top and the rest shaved clean, in wire-framed glasses, he's maybe Will's height and close to his build. There's also a gun holstered under his jacket, and the lines of his face seem to be molded into a permanent frown, even when he's trying to look pleasant. _Office tyrant_ , Will wants to label him; he has that harried look about him, of someone pulled too many directions at once and unwilling to drop any of the leashes.

"Agent Sitwell," Jack greets him without a smile, sitting forward and holding a hand out to indicate the free chair. "Please, have a seat. My people are gathering the materials you asked for right now."

"Then I won't need to take up any more of your time," Sitwell says, hesitating on his feet with one hand on the back of the chair.

Jack doesn't drop his hand, eyes boring into Sitwell's without blinking. "On the contrary, I thought you might be interested in a bit of interdepartmental cooperation. Gain the insight of those a little more used to dealing with this sort of case. Garden-variety serial killers don't usually hold much interest for SHIELD, am I right?"

Will keeps his mouth shut, resisting the urge to throw a quick glance Jack's way with effort.

"Ordinarily," Sitwell admits, reluctantly taking a seat. "But as it happens, we're not dealing with a serial killer."

"Aren't we," Jack says flatly, dropping his hand to lace his fingers across his stomach.

"No. I'm afraid, gentlemen, we're dealing with a rogue agent. The man killed last night was his former partner."

Will sits frozen, stunned at the audacity of the lie but simultaneously at how perfect the explanation would be. A flash of gold on the edge of his vision, and the scene ticks over--knife wounds not self-inflicted but defensive, the cold insistence on sending a message to his former _employers_ \--but the already-fragile tale Sitwell's constructing falls apart before it can take root. It doesn't jibe with _rescue_ or the earnest disappointment when Will couldn't give Winter back his past.

"A rogue agent," Jack echoes with a frown. "SHIELD's?"

"Unfortunately, yes. He was captured and recovered a few years ago, but in the process he lost most of his left arm. We fitted him with a Stark-made prosthesis, but…between what he suffered while captured, the amputation, the replacement…." Sitwell shakes his head, his sharp face mournful. It's an excellent performance; Will would almost believe it if he didn't know better. "He no longer knows who he is, but he has delusions of what he _thinks_ he is. We'd hoped his old partner could bring him back to himself, at least long enough to bring him in, but when he dropped off the radar as well, we began preparing for the worst."

Jack's eyes narrow. "So you know who he is. What he looks like. Why haven't you released this information elsewhere? This man has eight kills to his name in the last two months!"

"He was also very highly placed in SHIELD, enough to make him a target once before," Sitwell counters, voice hardening. "If certain interested parties realize he's acting as a free agent--that he's confused--it'll be a race to see who gets to him first, one we can't afford to lose. The cold, hard truth is that he knows too much. And," Sitwell adds quickly, like his last admission had pained him, "the fact is, SHIELD owes him. He was a good agent for many years before we failed him. He needs help, not to end up gunned down by police or tortured in a cave somewhere."

"And in the meantime, people die?" Jack challenges.

"We're handling it. We had him last night, as you'll recall," Sitwell says, mouth a bitter twist. "Next time we'll send more men."

He rises before Jack can argue further, smoothing the wrinkles from his suit jacket with a sharp tug before reaching into an inside pocket. He places the plain white envelope he pulls out onto Jack's desk, bypassing the posturing of letting Jack hesitate to take it. Will watches in silence, not trusting himself to speak, ice still slithering down his spine from that parting shot.

"Paperwork for you and your people to sign, agreeing not to talk about the case," Sitwell explains with a tight smile. "Run off as many copies as you need. Good evening, gentlemen."

He turns without waiting for a response, striding confidently out and closing the door softly behind him. Jack glares at his retreating back through the glass door, the muscles in his jaw jumping. "Well?" he says without looking at Will.

It's on the tip of his tongue to point out--again--that he's not a mind reader. "There is no Santa Claus," he murmurs instead, feeling lost and out of his depth.

Jack snorts, not understanding him perfectly but understanding enough. "Figured. So how much of that sob story do you think was the truth?"

Will shakes his head slowly, eyes wide but seeing nothing. How much? Winter's capture, the loss of the arm…those sound like truth, but the rest? Could the prosthesis have been Stark's? Have Winter's captors infiltrated SHIELD deeply enough that he might as _well_ be an agent? What does that say about SHIELD itself? And what does it say about the Avengers?

His thoughts stutter briefly over Captain America, but did SHIELD _really_ lose him for seventy years, or could part of that time have been spent in reprogramming him? If it's possible to strip a man's identity completely, what _isn't_ possible?

"I believe they want to get their hands on him first," Will says at last, "whoever he is."

And he believes that SHIELD owes Winter. That too.

***

After herding the dogs back inside, Lecter pauses at the front door, looking back at the soldier with some thought or question poised at the tip of his tongue. Instead he offers the flicker of a reassuring smile. "I won't be long," he says, other words tucked away for now as he steps outside, pulling the door closed behind him.

Left once again in a house empty but for seven dogs, the soldier sits for long minutes, uncertainty buzzing through him. He's not used to idleness, but he's been left with nothing to occupy him. He's already swept the place for bugs, finding not a one, so Graham must be pretty good at flying under the radar. The gear he stowed in the barn is in no need of maintenance, and neither is his arm; Lecter took care of the rest.

With no mission to prep for, no shot to wait patiently to take, the soldier's coming to the realization that being cut free of Hydra is…actually kind of boring. Considering the excitement of his life before, he can't say he minds.

He gets up after a moment to prowl the house again, looking this time for distractions. The walls in the front room are lined with bookshelves, and he skims the spines curiously. A lot of the books turn out to be about crime or fishing, here and there a technical manual, a biography. On the lowest shelf in the corner sits a collection of paperbacks with flashy covers and bestseller stickers, hidden away like a dirty secret.

The dog pack follows him from shelf to shelf, wagging their tails and sniffing at his legs and boots, occasionally pushing their heads into his hands. The first time that happens, he flinches away. The dog--big, mostly white with one brown ear, no breed he can name--whines at him like it's sorry for scaring him.

"What do _you_ do all day?" Winter asks once he's exhausted the contents of the front room, where he knows he's welcome, even if the presence of Graham's bed makes the entire notion confusing. He doesn't enter other people's personal quarters. If they're smart, they don't want him there. If they're stupid, he makes damn sure they don't want him there. The million dog beds scattered in front of the fireplace argues that _this_ time, it's okay.

The dogs' ears prick up at the sound of his voice, tails wagging faster. He has no idea what to do with that. Then again, if he'd been expecting clear directions from a dog, boredom would've been the least of his worries.

Lifting his arms, he stretches cautiously, twisting until something pulls. He doesn't want to get yelled at for popping his stitches, but he doesn't want to let himself get stiff and slow, either. Maybe just a few exercises to keep himself limber.

He sits down on the floor, thinking to start with a few careful sit-ups, and is mobbed instantly. "Hey!" he yelps, a rush of panic whiting out his brain. Powering up the arm, he tenses to fight his way out, until he gets a wet, slobbery tongue to the cheek. "What the--"

He's pretty sure he got all the blood off hours ago, but the dogs seem determined to wash his face for him anyway, switching to his hands when he tries to brush them aside. Their tails are going crazy, and he belatedly recalls Graham's warnings about getting licked to death, now that it's too late to do him any good. Graham had also sworn they wouldn't hurt a fly, and that does appear to be accurate; even though they've got him surrounded on all sides, none of them try to set their teeth in him.

"Okay, okay," he grumbles, but the dogs aren't listening. The littlest one--Buster?--tries to climb into his lap, and when he lowers his bent knees without thinking, he finds himself flat on his back in short order. The dogs think this is fantastic, throwing themselves down around him, even on him, lying across his legs and against his side. The big orange one with the white chest tries to curl up around his head so it can keep washing his face but doesn't complain when the soldier huffs, picks his head up, and uses it as a pillow instead. Buster settles onto his stomach, tail whacking him incessantly. Two of the others start to yawn.

Well. He guesses he knows now what the dogs do all day.

Briefly he considers getting up, but the dog pile's not that bad, and it's not like they actually have him trapped. He could shake them off anytime he wanted. At the first sign of danger, he'll be on his feet and ready to fight.

Buster yawns and puts his head down on his paws.

The soldier yawns right along with him before catching himself guiltily.

Well, shit. The dogs are dangerous after all.

***

Hannibal doesn't rush through his purchases, but neither does he linger. His options are narrower than he would like, both in the matter of ingredients and apparel, but he reminds himself he's shopping for others. He'd rather see Will's relieved pleasure than his dismay, and while he imagines Winter would make do with anything he's given, he suspects comfort will still be appreciated.

Winter is on his feet, poised and alert, when Hannibal returns to Will's house, but the sheer amount of dog hair clinging to him suggests he might have painted a different picture entirely not five minutes before. Hannibal greets the dogs as they meet him at the door and pretends not to notice.

"Want a hand?" Winter offers, nodding at the bags in Hannibal's arms.

"Perhaps you could help put the groceries away." It's likely best if Winter stays indoors for now, as far from the public eye as possible. His borrowed shirt does nothing to disguise his left arm, and it's hardly an inconspicuous feature.

Winter nods once and comes to take the bags from him, heading immediately into the kitchen. Hannibal makes three more trips for the rest of the groceries before going back for the clothing, looping the plastic handles of bag after bag over his arms. "See if these fit," he says when Winter comes back to take the next load. He thinks he's chosen well. They're of a height, though Winter has a younger man's physique, honed by rigorous training. "In the bathroom will be fine," he adds when Winter makes as if to strip off at once.

He mulls over the problem of that unthinking obedience as he goes searching for pots and pans to throw together a late meal. It's not that he objects to having his instructions followed. He's reasonably certain Winter's obedience is selective, else Will wouldn't be investigating the death of the man's handler. That Winter doesn't seem to have a filter to tell him when obedience is appropriate is what needs to be addressed if he hopes to reintegrate with society--or at least hide under its nose.

It's a thought that pleases Hannibal, in much the same way as its opposite: freeing the deepest desires of those suffocating under the weight of others' expectations. _Don't kill. Be good. Trust that things will get better, and learn to suffer through if they don't._ It's a game he only plays with the ones he truly likes, but then, only the ones he truly likes have the capacity to play.

Winter looks startlingly normal when he returns, clad in dark jeans, a long-sleeved thermal shirt and a red Henley. He appears to like layers, went straight for the thicker, softer fabrics, bundling up even indoors as if to ward off a chill. Hannibal makes a mental note of his preferences for the future.

"Did I hit upon the correct sizes?" he asks, selecting vegetables to be chopped for the pot. A hearty stew, he thinks: filling, easy to reheat, as good if not better on the second day.

Winter nods. "Thanks, Doc," he says, expression twisting momentarily with wry bemusement. Clearly not a phrase he'd ever expected himself to utter.

"Please," Hannibal invites, "call me Hannibal if that's more comfortable. I wouldn't want to be the cause of negative associations."

"If there'd been more technicians like you in the field, my job would've been a lot easier," Winter says with a quiet snort, hesitating on the threshold as if testing his welcome. When he sidles inside, he takes the long way around the table but eventually fetches up at the counter just out of arm's reach. "Most of 'em talk tough when you're strapped to a table, but make 'em pick up a weapon and fight? Pfft," he scoffs, upper lip curling. "Probably oughta be glad you're not the norm, I guess, or whatever they screwed up with me this time would've gotten fixed weeks ago."

"Likely so," Hannibal says, turning his head to examine Winter thoughtfully as he sets a sharp knife down on the cutting board. He can think of many reasons why a patient immune to chemical amelioration would be strapped down and many more that have nothing to do with an enhanced healing factor. "But tell me...how did my...activities lead you to believe I was trustworthy?"

Winter shrugs, folding his arms and leaning his left hip against the counter as he settles in: lightly, ready to move in an instant, whether he finds a threat to confront or gets shooed away. "Far as I can tell, you're a free agent. Thing is, you're good--smart with the planning, handy with the tools. If you'd wanted to be on someone's payroll, you would be." He sounds very certain, his tone too matter-of-fact to be mere flattery. "Since you're not, I figure you've got as much invested in not going on anyone's radar as I do. So you could sell me out, sure, but I don't think you will. Not unless you think I'm a danger to your...." His explanation hangs there, but he seems to be searching for words, not attempting to dissemble. "You know," he says at last, unfolding his right arm to sketch a flourish in the air. "Your person."

It's highly doubtful he means Hannibal's physical person in this case. "Will?"

Winter nods, frustration easing from his face.

"It's possible your very presence might be a danger."

Winter ducks his head, eyes sliding away only to snap back up again, his jaw clenching with determination. "Maybe. But only if I'm sloppy. I owe the guy," Winter says levelly. "Anyone comes after him, they’ll have to get through me."

Hannibal arches a brow. Not for the first time, it occurs to him that Winter could prove quite the stumbling block to his plans…or else an unlooked-for boon.

"Anyway, Graham likes you," Winter says with an easy shrug. "Seems like he'd be a good judge of character."

"I'd like to think so," Hannibal replies, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. "Is that why you've been careful to speak only of your Hydra targets? Curating his impression of your character?"

Winter eyes him curiously, like he's somehow gone off-script. "I don't deal much with civilians," he says after a moment, eyes drifting away again to watch as Hannibal goes back to slicing vegetables for the pot. "But sometimes you don't have a choice. Most of them don't see what's right under their noses. They don't want to see. And when every drop of usefulness has been squeezed out of them, they get a bullet--and they don't see that coming, either, or they tell themselves they don't. Maybe that's better.

"Graham, though…he's not used to looking--doesn't even know what he's looking for, does he?" he asks in friendly commiseration. "But now that he knows it's there, he's not going to stay blind for long."

"If anything he sees too much," Hannibal agrees. "That remarkable perception of his."

"And that's why I'm watching what I say. Once the blindfold comes off, there's no putting it back on, but there's no reason he's gotta see it all at once. Give a guy time to find his feet, and maybe he'll stand on his own."

A boon, Hannibal decides. Definitely a boon. Winter may see Hannibal as something other than what he is--interpreting his actions through the only lens he knows--but their philosophies are similar enough to put them on the same page with regards to Will. With Winter there to normalize things, Hannibal's own habits may seem almost tame by comparison.

"So your targets haven't only come from within the ranks."

"Not even close," Winter says, good humor bleeding away. "But they're the ones I remember the best. No one ever bothers to wipe those memories; it's probably their message to me."

Will comes home three hours later, keyed-up but exhausted. He's paler than usual, hands trembling faintly as he bends to greet the dogs, and his eyes seek out Winter unerringly even as he pitches his voice in happy tones for the sake of his pack. Hannibal wonders if this is the breaking point--if Will, having taken in a murderer, will eject Winter from the fold now that Will's become responsible for him--but his first question as he straightens is full of caution, not disgust.

"Do you know an Agent Sitwell with SHIELD?"

Hannibal's spine stiffens in surprise. SHIELD? Will shoots him a troubled look but doesn't explain.

"Can you describe him?" Winter asks, uncertain. "People don't introduce themselves to me."

"My height, bald, wire-frame glasses. Brown eyes, tan skin."

Winter shakes his head helplessly; it's not much to go on.

Will sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, well, he's the one they sent around to gather up all our materials on the case. Gave us this story about you being a rogue agent they're trying to redeem after you suffered a breakdown."

"They're claiming him as one of their own?" Hannibal asks, eyes narrowing.

"Well, seeing as his handler was also SHIELD, I guess it doesn't seem too far of a stretch to them," Will grouses. "This Sitwell character's in on it for sure, possibly Prurnell, or possibly the entire Office of the Inspector General. Maybe even Tony Stark, since he apparently made your arm!" Will gestures sharply at Winter's left side, voice rising with every word. There's fear in his tone, in the blank distance of his eyes, but under that is a slow-burning anger that threatens to spark into a blaze. "I feel like I ought to be shouting this from the rooftops--"

"Don't," Winter says flatly, eyes enormous, body a tense coil.

"Exactly, because who the hell do we even tell without risking them already knowing? Just--who _are_ these people, because this is…this is crazy. Or I'm crazy," Will mutters under his breath, "and I don't feel like that kind of crazy."

"Did…you lose any time while you were out?" Winter asks cautiously. "Because I know I told you this…I did tell you, right?"

"Yeah, you said--" Will freezes as the blood drains from his face. "You said Hydra. But you didn't mean a new group, did you?" Winter shakes his head. "The same group from the Forties is still going strong? But--they were defeated. Johann Schmidt--"

"Cut off one head," Winter says with a grimace. He doesn't need to supply the rest.

Hannibal takes a deep, slow breath as he assimilates this new information with the rest of what he knows. A great many things, from Winter's experiences to his condition, make vastly more sense than they did before. But to learn that Hydra is more than just the bogeyman of a vanished era…. "'The finest trick of the devil,'" he murmurs half to himself, "'is to persuade you that he does not exist.'"

Stumbling over to collapse on the couch, Will looks at him in weary surprise. " _The Usual Suspects_?"

"Charles Baudelaire," Hannibal corrects him with a faint smile.

"Christ," Will breathes, hunching over himself to prop his elbows on his knees, digging his fingers into his hair as he hangs his head. "What do we even do with this?" 

"Same thing you've been doing," Winter suggests, surprising them both. "It's not like Hydra wasn't there yesterday. Only thing different is now you know."

"Act natural?" Will translates with a strained laugh.

"First rule of working undercover."

"Yeah," Will says, sitting up only to fall back in a tired sprawl. "I know. I mean, I was Homicide--back when I was a cop--not…anyway, I get it," he says, biting off the rest of his rambling. "They really are going to come after you, aren't they?"

"I can leave," Winter offers without hesitating, as if he'd be happy to do Will the favor.

Will smiles. "No you can't," he says, with a gentle weight of meaning behind it indecipherable to Hannibal but which clearly strikes a chord with Winter.

"You take this rescue business way too seriously," Winter grumbles, ducking his head and turning his face away.

The satisfied look Will shoots Hannibal is only surprising in its invitation for him to share in the triumph. It's the same look Will gave him when he got them placed on Abigail's visitors list, when he won permission for her to be checked out of the hospital for short periods in their care. Somehow, without his realizing, Hannibal has become both a co-parent and a co-defender. It's a source of wonder, how little he minds it.

"Right," Will says, clapping his hands on his thighs with an air of finality. "So what am I smelling? Because whatever it is, it smells fantastic."

***

Will tries to hide the trepidation he feels at turning in that night, but he's not sure how well he manages it. He tells Winter he has nightmares, which Winter seems to understand, and that he shouldn't trouble himself if he hears anything, which Winter doesn't get at all. Four hours in the man's company, and Will's already well aware of Winter's tendency to prowl. At least he doesn't argue when Will suggests they get some sleep, and now Winter's ensconced in the upstairs guest bedroom, really the master bedroom, and Will's telling himself he's not going to start dreaming about shadowy government agencies the minute he closes his eyes.

He is, of course, completely full of shit.

In his dream, the stag comes to him in his classroom. Its hooves are the only sound; his students, always quiet, now look afraid to move. They're staring at the slide projected on the wall behind him and Will knows only that he doesn't want to know what it is.

The stag stands in the doorway and snorts impatiently, digging a hoof into the floor. "Class dismissed," Will says, but nobody moves. Nobody wants to turn their back, so Will leaves instead, following the stag out the door and down the hall. The doors to the other classrooms stand open, and he knows they're all full, but he keeps his head down, doesn't glance in, pretends not to hear the wet, bubbling rasp of air sucked in through holes that shouldn't exist, the slow patter of liquid overflowing onto the floor.

"Graham," Jack snaps at his back. "Why aren't you at the Hobbs' place?"

Right--there's a job he has to do there, the price of admission if he wants out of the classroom and into the field. He doesn't know what Jack's problem is with this quiet Minnesota family, and he doesn't ask. It's going to be his first mission, and he can't screw it--

"Hey."

Will's eyes snap open as he grabs for handholds in the sheets, so disoriented at finding himself horizontal, he feels he may fall upward, gravity no longer certain. His skin feels clammy, his hair plastered to his brow with sweat, and it takes a moment to connect the other voice in his dream with the shadowy figure standing at the foot of his bed.

That's worth another stab of panic until he notices the striping running down one arm, like he's looking not at flesh but--

"Winter?" he asks groggily.

Winter nods. "You're fine," he says, stating and not asking. That strikes Will as odd, until-- "Nobody heard."

Bringing both hands up to scrub at his face, Will tries to convince himself that murder is not the answer, even when the question is Hydra. It takes a lot of convincing.

"Thanks," he croaks, letting his hands drop so he can sit part of the way up, leaning back on his elbows. "You can go back to sleep. I'll just get a towel, and--"

Winter nods again, turning on his heel, but instead of making for the stairs, he goes to the linen closet instead.

"Um, thanks?" Will says again, sitting up fully to take the towel Winter hands him. "Really, it's--"

"You go ahead. I'll keep watch."

Half-twisted to lay the towel down across his mattress and pillow--and who cares if it looks lazy; he's too tired to worry about changing sweat-soaked sheets in the middle of the night--Will glances back over his shoulder with a frown. "You're not seriously planning on standing there creepily to watch me sleep."

The sudden flash of Winter's wide grin is there and gone in an instant, but even in the muted glow of moonlight, the expression that remains is decidedly smug. "Nah. I just do that to fuck with my handlers."

Will laughs breathlessly, cheered all out of proportion by that small rebellion. "Okay, then. But it's fine. I don't need you to keep watch. This is actually normal for me."

"Mm-hmm."

Winter's not listening to him. That's a good thing, he reminds himself; he wants that for Winter. Best to just let him do what he wants to do; he'll figure out soon enough which of Will's peculiarities are worth paying attention to and which can be ignored.

"Right, well…goodnight," Will says, pulling the blankets back up and curling over and down to lie on his side. His undershirt sticks to him unpleasantly, but he ignores it for now. He'd like to take it off, but it feels weird with Winter looming there like a cyborg guardian angel.

"Night," Winter says after a pause: a traveler dealing with an unfamiliar social ritual he nevertheless finds charming. He moves on in the next breath, starting a slow, careful round of the downstairs windows. Will can't hear his footsteps, but the soft creaking of old floorboards lets him track Winter's progress. By all rights, it ought to keep him awake.

He drops off before Winter can complete the circuit, inexplicably comforted.


	3. Chapter 3

Will's not at his best first thing in the morning. He acknowledges it. He owns it. He just doesn't usually have to do either in front of an audience, unless you count the dogs.

He's not sure how long Winter ends up standing in the kitchen doorway before Will notices he's there, if by 'notice' he means staring dully at him for a moment before going back to flipping eggs, only to do a startled double-take an instant later. "Christ," he mutters. "There's two of you."

Winter's brows arch uncertainly, but then he scares the crap out of Will by looking over his shoulder, like that _actually might be a possibility_. He should ask about that. He really, really should. Only--

"Two of me?" Winter asks, sounding disgustingly awake for someone who woke Will up from a nightmare then checked every point of access so Will could go back to sleep without worrying about monsters under the bed.

"You and Hannibal," he blurts, embarrassment conspiring with his half-awake brain to loosen his tongue. "You're both in whisper mode or something. How do you move so quietly in those boots?"

Winter looks down at himself then back up again. He's in blue today, a soft-looking sweater over another long-sleeved shirt, but he's still wearing the same heavy footwear he arrived in. "Practice?"

"And then there's Hannibal," Will grumbles, warming to his subject. "Do you know how hard it is to walk in dress shoes without sounding like Fred Astaire mid-routine?" Winter blinks and slowly shakes his head. Right. He probably has no idea who Fred Astaire is to begin with. "A man could feel like a herd of elephants around you two."

"You want me to make more noise?"

"What? No. No, of course not," Will assures him quickly. "Just try to cut me some slack when you inevitably scare ten years off my life, okay?"

Winter ducks his head a little, teeth trapping his lower lip as he peers at Will guiltily through his lashes.

"You used to do that on purpose too," Will hazards a guess, "didn't you?"

"Maybe…?"

Will laughs as he turns back to the stove, which Winter seems to take as permission to step into the kitchen at last.

Breakfast is a comfortably silent affair, which Will would feel guilty over, except Winter doesn't look like a man pining for want of small talk. He just tucks into his food--slower this time, like he's giving himself permission to enjoy it--lingering over his coffee while he waits for Will to catch up. When Will excuses himself to get ready for work, Winter gets up to stand in the kitchen doorway and watch him stumble through his daily routine, his uncertain hovering broadcasting a question he hasn't quite worked up to asking. Will's still not sure whether he ought to be encouraging Winter to open up or letting him proceed at his own pace, but he knows which one he'd prefer in Winter's shoes.

He's almost to the front door, car keys in hand, when Winter speaks up at last.

"Got anything you want me to do today?"

Will stops in his tracks, struck by two realizations simultaneously. First is that he knows better than to leave high-energy people at home without adequate entertainment. The problem is, he's never been much for television, and the laptop he uses for work is the only computer he's ever needed. Other than the dogs and his eclectic collection of books, there's not much in the house to hold someone's attention.

Second, when Winter says 'anything,' there's a good chance murder and mayhem are included on that list, but he's not looking at Will like this is some kind of test. He looks curious, like he's genuinely interested to hear what Will will come up with.

"Other than keeping the dogs company…?" Will stalls, casting a desperate glance around the front room for inspiration. With SHIELD in the picture, Will's a little too worried about satellite surveillance to suggest anything outside, and Will's indoor hobbies were practically lifted whole-cloth from his dad's generation. Winter doesn't exactly strike him as a fly-tying enthusiast, though Hannibal, much like a cat, is apparently incapable of leaving small bits of feather and string alone.

Recalling the attention-grabber that project had turned out to be sparks an idea.

"What's your feeling on motors?"

"I'm…grateful when they turn over on the first try?"

"Yeah? Care to help me with that, then?" Will asks, nodding at the rust-scaled hulk of an old boat motor propped up in the corner, partially wrapped in a tarp. "I've been meaning to see if I can get it running, but everything that's not rusted in place was already stripped when I bought it. Maybe you could...?" He mimes unscrewing something with his left hand, watching Winter hopefully.

Winter stares, expression nearly blank, though his eyes grow bright with tightly-contained hilarity. "Sure," he says, humor fading to worry as he nods at his metal shoulder. "But I guarantee you this thing's a lot stronger than whatever that thing's made of."

Will waves him off with a smile. "I doubt you could break it any worse than it already is, but it's fine. I picked it up for practically nothing. I used to help my dad fix motors like these when I was a kid," he explains as Winter arches a brow. "Thought it'd be a nice project."

Winter nods without any real understanding, but he looks less nervous knowing nothing's riding on his performance.

"Sorry. I know you're going to be bored today," Will says, grimacing a little. "Is there anything you want me to bring back? Books? A phone?" He's already planning on picking up a cheap tablet on the way home; Winter won't be hacking into NASA with it, but it will at least be a link to the outside world.

"'M fine," Winter says, his default answer to everything. Will can't help wondering how long it'll take before Winter lets himself be not-fine for even five minutes at a stretch. Will suspects it's going to have less to do with comfort and trust and more to do with Hydra. "Boring's good."

"I believe it. Look, I better get on the road. Just help yourself to anything you need and start a list of anything we're missing. You can let the dogs out if you see them go stand by the door; they'll come back on their own when they've done their business. Just don't let them bully you into petting them all day; they're supposed to be using their powers for good."

Winter nods solemnly, eyes wide. Will almost feels bad for confusing the man, except he's not really joking.

He's halfway to work before remembers he meant to bring up Abigail, but that's not really a quick conversation to be had over breakfast. As much as he doesn't want to disappoint her, he doesn't want to tell Winter to make himself scarce for a few hours either, like he's only welcome when there's no one around to see. He almost wants to talk it out with Hannibal first, get his insight on the matter, but there's a weird co-parenting vibe to that thought that's maybe a little more accurate than he's entirely comfortable with. He can picture it a little _too_ well with Abigail, but Winter? And what would be next, the dogs?

A quiet laugh sneaks up on him then, because he's certain Hannibal would have pets of his own if he thought he could take care of them properly. As busy as he is, he's content to live vicariously through Will, sneakily securing visitation rights and spoiling the dogs shamelessly whenever he stops by.

"Great," he mutters to himself, still smiling. Hannibal would be the _favorite_ parent. Why is he not surprised?

Still, while he doesn't doubt Hannibal would manage this potential minefield brilliantly, Will suspects Winter's had enough of being managed. For all that Winter has a sort of murderous naivety to him, like Hannibal isn't the only cat who walks on two legs, he's not _stupid_. Will can just sit him down, explain the situation and his worries regarding Abigail's reaction, and let Winter offer up his own suggestions. He might be courting one of Winter's atypical reactions, but unless Hydra has some bizarre standing policy regarding people left orphaned in the course of a mission, it should be fine.

Will clenches his jaw grimly, fingers curling tight around the steering wheel. Right. So the first thing he's going to ask is whether Hydra has a standing policy regarding people left orphaned in the course of a mission. At this point he wouldn't put anything past those bastards, and he wants to be ready.

***

When he can no longer hear the crunch of tires over the rutted dirt path outside, the soldier turns to examine the ancient hunk of machinery he's been tasked with. It's not immediately familiar to him--no missions come to mind where such a piece of equipment would ever have been necessary--but he's competent enough to perform field repairs on a number of vehicles in a pinch.

Finding a good place to grip that won't shear away from the whole, he hefts it up with his left hand and uses the right to keep the tarp spread out under it, sparing the floor. Hauling it out to the clear space in the middle of the room, he takes a knee and sets the old motor down on its end, careful not to bend the propeller, and gingerly turns it this way and that. Though the shape of the thing doesn't ring any bells, there's something about the smell of engine grime and the feel of tacky residue on his fingers that scratches fitfully at the back of his thoughts.

The dogs come to investigate as he crouches down closer to their level, but this time he nudges them away. Washing oil out of fur sounds like the kind of shit job you'd _want_ a handler around for, only Graham is about the furthest thing from it, so he won't leave him with that kind of mess. "No," he says, but quiet, conversational, because he's never much enjoyed being barked at himself. It seems to do the trick; they stay off the tarp, but Buster comes to sit down beside him, head cocked, watching every move the soldier makes.

Laying the motor down flat on its side, he leans in for a better look at a stripped bolt and the smell of rust, grit and oil hits him so hard he can see the--

\-- _car's a mess, front end crushed and crumpled around the trunk of a tree, the sinus-tickling smell of engine heat strong in the cold night air_ \--

Shaking his head, the soldier blinks away the flash of memory with an inexplicable feeling of nausea. He remembers that op, he thinks: a deserted stretch of highway, an old man and an old woman, unlikely couriers for something sensitive enough to send him after. He doesn't recall feeling one way or the other about the job at the time--mostly what he recalls is the shattering ache in his skull he'd had to push past just to put one foot in front of the other--so this…disgust, _regret_ : that's new.

Lowering himself the rest of the way down, the soldier folds his legs tailor-fashion and rests his hands on his knees, gingerly poking at the memory to see if more will come. Nothing pokes back, but he can no longer trust that things will stay that way. He knows without knowing how that he shouldn't be having these episodes, that the chair was created to keep them from ever happening. The thing is, he _gets_ it. Those weird snatches of memory that leave him feeling sick and angry: he's had them before. It's what usually happens afterwards that terrifies him right down to his boots for the first time he can recall.

He can be...unreliable at times. He knows it. He usually doesn't care. Only now he has people, and dogs, but not the first clue how to keep them safe. From Hydra, yes, but not from him.

He rubs the back of his wrist over the tip of his nose with a frown. The memories are the problem. He needs to focus on the present. It's _good_ , here in the now. If he remembers anything, he wants to remember that.

Right. So. Time to-- _open some jars_ , comes to him out of nowhere, which--while ridiculous--is no _less_ ridiculous than what Graham has him doing. Enough grip strength to crush a man's skull, and Graham wants him to use it to loosen a few screws.

There's a joke in there, he's pretty sure, but it's just not coming to him.

Getting up briefly to pull over a worn cardboard box that had been hiding behind Graham's project, the soldier finds it full of dirty rags, cans of solvent, and an eclectic assortment of tools. He sits back down to rummage through its contents, out of curiosity more than anything, picks up a wrench, and--

\-- _the repair shop's an oven in the late days of summer, but first thing in the morning, it's almost bearable, the concrete floors having cooled overnight. He's leaning over to look into the guts of a car, a giant hunk of steel and chrome like nothing he's ever seen before, or no, it's the missing piece he never sees on any street, the streets outside growing noisier now the city is waking, waking to cold, to cold chamber and cold ice and ice-melt, and something wet on his face_ \--

A dog whines at him as it licks his cheek, little paws digging into his leg as it tries to get his attention. It licks him again as he gasps air like a drowner, eyes wide. He has no idea how long he's been sitting there. He almost doesn't remember where he is, but when he does, he's grateful to have been pulled back.

"Good dog," he rasps through a closed throat, reaching up absently to pet--is that Buster? He gets a wide, doggy grin as he leans away from the next tongue-swipe, and sure enough, it's the runty little guy who seems determined to follow him everywhere. He probably shouldn't be encouraging the mutt--it's a wonder he didn't lash out at the first touch--but for once the episode that hijacks brain and body doesn't leave him angry. This one just has him--

\-- _longing_ \--

\--feeling wistful.

"I hated that thing, you know." Buster's ears perk up, the soldier given his full attention. "I'm not _crazy_." He hates the chair with every fiber of his being, but the quiet it left in its wake: no thought, no fear, no doubt...sometimes it feels like that's the only kind thing Hydra has ever done for him.

He doesn't feel quiet now. He feels...scrambled, where he's usually a blank. As if the sharp fingers of electricity that had dug into his head had sunk into new spaces, just a little off their mark, and made a wreck of everything. He knows he's not himself, and yet--like running from Hydra--it doesn't feel _wrong_. If his brain is a maze, and some days it feels that way, he has to wonder if this time around they knocked down a few walls by accident.

Buster's soft yip is more breath than bark, but it sounds enough like agreement to tug at the corners of the soldier's mouth. "Good job," he says, patting the little dog's back, "but next time just bark from the doorway and run, okay?"

He gets his chin licked for his trouble. He can't say he's even surprised. Scrappy little guy like this--of course he's got more guts than sense.

He doesn't know why he expected anything different.

***

"Hydra?" Winter asks with a frown. "You mean like if the kids were witnesses?"

Will winces, nearly inputting the wrong password for the wi-fi he's trying to set up on Winter's new tablet. Winter, sitting just within arm's reach on the couch beside him, waits patiently for clarification. "Is the answer different if they're not?"

"Well, yeah. I mean--it's kind of a secret club, you know? Rule number one is not getting caught. Witnesses are messy, so you try to avoid those, but kids are messier. No one wants to deal with that, or watch it being dealt with." Some thought or memory has him clenching his jaw, eyes fixed on nothing. "Plans get fucked up, but a commander who can't or _won't_ plan around _that_ is an idiot. People want to believe they're the good guys, but it's hard to tell yourself that when there's crying kids involved."

Will sets the tablet down on his knee. He knows the mindset; he's studied it. It's still hard to wrap his head around an entire group of people who legitimately believe the tenets of Hydra are sound, sane and reasonable.

"Why?" Winter asks abruptly. "Did one of my targets have a family socked away I didn't know about?"

"No. Well, maybe, but that's not why I'm asking. No, there's someone I've been meaning to talk to you about, because she might come visit at some point, but…it's complicated. Her name's Abigail. Abigail Hobbs. Her dad was…a very troubled man who was abducting girls that looked like his daughter and killing them in her stead. Not to send a warning," Will adds quickly, which turns Winter's deepening frown puzzled, "but because he couldn't stand to lose her. He was trying to keep some part of her with him with every girl he killed."

Winter nods after a beat, still confused but willing to follow along. Will can't say he blames him. Men like Hobbs _shouldn't_ make sense.

"I was called in to help build a profile on him," Will explains, pulling off his glasses and folding them into one hand as he slumps back into the cushions. "It shouldn't have gone any further than that, but it's easier for me to step inside a killer's head when I can examine the scene in person. See it all fresh."

"Like you did with the lawyers?"

Will nods. "Exactly. So I was there in Minnesota when we finally got a break in the case. Well. A bigger break," Will admits. "I was having trouble seeing the whole picture until another killer, someone copying Hobbs, left a perfect negative image of Hobbs' last victim. After that…." Will shakes his head slowly, the rustle of dry feathers and the hollow clop of hooves echoing faintly from everywhere and nowhere at once. He shakes his head, shakes it off. "After I saw what the copycat had done, I knew what made Hobbs different.

"Anyway, we had that and a pipe shaving from a construction site, so then it was just legwork. It was supposed to be me and my boss, but Jack got called in to court and sent Dr. Lecter in his place."

"I didn't think Lecter worked for the FBI," Winter cuts in, surprised.

"He doesn't. What I do is…difficult," Will says carefully, "and as various people had various concerns regarding my ability to function in the field, it was felt I needed a point of stability, a sort of support network I could turn to. On paper he's a consultant. In reality he was called in to make sure Jack's 'fragile little teacup' doesn't develop any cracks." He reminds himself belatedly to ease up on the sarcasm, but Winter doesn't seem fazed.

"Freelancing," he says with a sage nod.

Will huffs a laugh, because Winter makes it sound like Hannibal's a hired gun. Considering Winter's unique frame of reference, it's not that far off the mark, only Hannibal's weapons are his words and his ruthless politeness. Even Jack walks more softly under the threat of Hannibal's pointed looks.

"Right. Well, we found a lead that took us straight to Hobbs, but…we had no backup, no official agents. Just me and my unofficial psychiatrist. Honestly I don't know what I was thinking."

"That you were gonna save the girl?"

"Yeah," Will sighs, rubbing his thumb absently along the edge of the tablet balanced on his knee, which has since gone dark. "That about sums it up. Only when we got there, it turned out Hobbs was just waiting for us. He slit his wife's throat, pushed her out the door, and went back for his daughter. I ended up putting nine rounds into him, but he'd already started the job on Abigail. If Hannibal hadn't been there, she'd have bled out right there on the kitchen floor."

Lips parted, Winter stares at him owlishly for a long moment until his mouth closes so fast Will hears his teeth click together. "What?" Will asks tiredly, not really up for being read the riot act for charging in and nearly getting an innocent girl killed. He deserves it; it's just somehow been overlooked in the face of his supposed trauma over having shot her father.

" _Nine rounds_?" Winter blurts like he just can't keep it in a second longer.

The laughter that bursts from Will sneaks up out of nowhere, leaves his shoulders shaking breathlessly as he makes a fumbled grab for the tablet before it can slide off onto the floor. There's more than a touch of hysteria in it, but it's been a long week. Month. It's been a long winter. "I was thorough?"

" _Two_ is thorough. Nine is target practice," Winter scolds, shaking his head. "But the girl--she's all right now? Only I guess she didn't have anywhere to go."

"Not exactly. She was in a coma at first--medically induced, to give the doctors time to fix her up and give her body time to heal--and now she's in a facility in Baltimore for women who…need a special environment," Will hedges. He doesn't want Winter thinking Abigail is crazy or dangerous, because she's neither. She just has a lot on her plate right now, more than anyone should have to deal with on their own.

Winter frowns. "A secure facility?"

"Very secure," Will promises. "No one gets in without an invitation, and no one leaves without permission." Not that Hydra should have any interest in Abigail, but she ought to be reasonably safe where she is.

"Huh. And she's coming here?"

"I'd like her to," Will says plainly. "I feel…very responsible for her being where she is. And I told her she could come visit the dogs. If she wanted."

Winter's frown clears at last. "Got it. So you want me on standby, or what?"

"Well…that's where it gets complicated." Will is half certain that something he just said has gone totally amiss in Winter's head, but they seem to be on the same page otherwise, so he'll run with it for now. "I don't know how much attention she's been giving the news, but if she figures out you're the one who killed those people…."

"She's gonna wonder why you're playing favorites," Winter finishes for him, seeing the problem instantly.

"That and she'll probably try to turn you in herself. That doesn't mean I want you to leave," Will insists, forcing himself to turn his head and catch Winter's eyes to drive the point home. "It just means we'll need to take some precautions, that's all."

"It's fine," Winter says, so confident Will almost feels ridiculous for worrying. "How old's this one?"

"Seventeen, almost eighteen…? I'm not actually sure. She was looking at colleges before all this happened."

Winters brows arch like Will's answer is somehow unexpected, but then he snorts. "Yeah, they can be little hellions at that age, but I got this. That place where they're holding her, though--what'd you say the name was again?"

***

When a nurse comes to rap on her door to tell her she has a visitor, Abigail's already ready. _Who_ her visitor is makes things a little awkward if she thinks about it too hard, and it's impossible not to think about it. Will Graham wants so badly to do right by her, to be right _about_ her, and she's constantly afraid she'll say or do the wrong thing and ruin his perfect image of her. And that's terrifying, because Will is the _least_ complicated ally she has.

She smiles, big and bright, when he gingerly steps into her room.

"Hi, Abigail," he says, doing his best to meet her eyes for at least the length of his greeting. That'd been weird at first, a little too like guilt or dishonesty, but she's seen him with both Dr. Bloom and Hannibal now, and from their reactions, she guesses that's just the way he is. "How've you been?"

"Good. Bored," she amends, glancing at the coat folded over his arm. He doesn't even try to set it down, uncertain of his welcome. She's still not sure whether he's just self-conscious about entering what amounts to her bedroom or because being the only interesting thing _in_ the room makes him feel like he's under a microscope. Taking pity on him, she asks, "Want to go for a walk? They might stop treating me like a flight risk if you're around."

He doesn't point out that she _is_ a flight risk. "Sure," he says with a quirky little smile, shoulders relaxing as they step back out into the hall and she falls in step beside him, no longer staring _at_ him. Inconclusive data, Hannibal would say. At least she's gotten him to loosen up.

It's cold enough that the indoor garden would probably be a smart choice, but she's tired of being cooped up inside. She strikes out across the grounds instead, ignoring the assessing stares of the nurses and the other patients. Will glances at her sidelong a time or two but doesn't say anything until they're well out of earshot, hidden behind one of the hedge walls meant to give at least the illusion of privacy.

"Still not talking in group?" Will asks. Unlike Dr. Bloom, his wry tone is completely sympathetic, not a lead-up to pointing out all the ways she could be handling this better.

Abigail snorts, folding her arms and just as quickly unfolding them. She doesn't want to look defensive, even if she is. Especially if she is. "I'll start talking in group when they stop treating my life like a true crime thriller. Some of the things they ask are just…." She doesn't have to play up the shudder that runs down her spine. "If I want to talk to vultures, I can go to the zoo."

"Well, there's always Freddie Lounds," Will mutters under his breath. She pretends not to hear him. She knows Ms. Lounds intends to use her, but she hasn't quite made up her mind whether the payoff of letting her will be worth it. How much does it cost to start your life over and erase your past? When she knows that, she'll know how to deal with Freddie Lounds.

"Anyway, let's not talk about group," she says, wrinkling her nose. "Weren't you going to bring dog pictures?"

Will gives her a look that lets her know he's on to her, but he reaches obligingly for his phone all the same. "You know, I think this is the first time I've used the camera on this thing outside of--"

As he glances up again, his eyes jerk past to stare at something behind her and grow wide with dismay. She almost expects to find a disapproving Dr. Bloom or an angry Jack Crawford bearing down on them, but when she turns to look, she sees a stranger.

The man approaching is on the scruffy side, with a few days' worth of beard stubble and long hair that just brushes his shoulders. He's in a worn coat of indeterminate color, bundled up in layers underneath, hands encased in black leather gloves and a plain ball cap tugged down low over his eyes. He looks like trouble--too purposeful and way too focused on her--but he stops just out of reach, just at the point where she would have had to decide whether to stand firm or fall back.

He opens his mouth, a sharp question on his tongue, but she honestly doesn't have a clue what it is.

"Uh…is that Russian?" she asks, eyeing him doubtfully. Why would a total stranger be speaking Russian at her?

Scary Hipster Guy looks surprised, but he finally looks away when Will steps up beside her--and then it's her turn to be confused, because instead of warning the guy off, Will says, "Winter? What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you get back out," the guy says in perfect English, so earnest it's clear he thinks he's doing his good deed for the day.

Will opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. "Okay…not that I don't worry about that every time I enter one of these places, but...how'd you even get in?"

"Are you kidding?" Winter scoffs, glancing to her as if for backup. "Security here is a joke."

"You're telling me," Abigail agrees, because that's a statement she can get behind. At his curious look, she explains, "I went right over the wall just a few weeks ago." Winter gives her a startled look and the sort of once-over her mother would when she came back from a hunting trip, just to make sure she still had all her fingers and toes, muttering something she can't quite catch. Still, it sort of sounds like-- "Are you swearing in Russian?"

"No," Winter says without hesitation, too firm to be anything but a lie. "And don't you repeat it. Madame's mad enough at me as it is."

"What, the director?" Abigail huffs, mouth tightening. "You and me both. I don't think she's forgiven me yet for the wall."

For a guy who'd looked like a textbook villain a moment ago, now he's the picture of muted concern. She braces herself for a lecture, but Winter says, "You really shouldn't do that unless you know you can make it stick."

Will groans. "Can we not teach her bad habits, please?"

"Getting caught's a bad habit," Winter counters. "Getting away with it is just good sense."

That…was not what she expected to hear. In all the best ways. "I like him," she says, a grin slowly taking over her face. "I'm...guessing you two are friends?"

Winter looks to Will, handing over the responsibility of explaining to him. Will just sighs and pushes up his glasses.

"Yeah, that's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about today. Winter moved in just the other day, and I wanted to make sure you were okay with that before you came for a visit."

"Well...yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" It's not like she's suddenly going to have a problem with him being gay--or is it bi?--just because he's introduced her to his boyfriend. It's just a little surprising, since she'd assumed he and Hannibal had a thing. They're sort of inseparable, from what she's seen.

"I mean, you seem nice enough," she's quick to add, giving Winter a closer look. He's still an incredibly scary hipster guy, but telling her off preemptively for swearing in foreign languages, then telling her not to get caught? She bets he's the mom friend for his entire circle. A little weird, maybe, but you probably had to have a little weirdness of your own to fit in with Will's. "What'd you say your name was again?"

"It's Win--"

"J--ah, Jimmy," Will blurts simultaneously. Winter narrows his eyes like an annoyed cat.

"How many times I gotta tell you not to call me that? It's James," he offers, holding out his right hand for her to shake. It's strong, big enough to engulf hers entirely, the leather of his glove cool against her skin, but he takes her hand like it's made of glass. "James Winter."

It's odd, the way he says his last name, like it should mean something to her, or like he's checking to see whether it does. He's probably just fishing to see whether Will's mentioned him before, which as it turns out is a good call. She'd google him later if she didn't have first-hand experience with just how creepy and invasive it feels to be on the receiving end of that.

"Pleased to meet you, James. So what's with the Russian?" If anything, he sounds like he's from New York.

He has a nice smile, but they're tiny, quick things that never linger for long. This one looks oddly relieved.

"Bad habit I'm trying to break. Maybe we could help each other." Without missing a beat, he turns to Will and says, "We gotta get her out of here."

"Wait, what?"

Abigail stares, as dumbfounded as Will, but she's not about to argue with luck. "Well, now I really like him."

Will shoots her a harried look before turning back to deal with his crazy-awesome boyfriend. "We can't just take her out of here--"

"Sure we can. I'll create a distraction--"

"No! I mean--she's got things to deal with that we can't help her with," Will insists, quickly lowering his voice in embarrassment. "Things to do with her dad."

"But…you've got dogs...?" Winter says, like this makes all the sense in the world.

Will doesn't laugh; he just looks sad, which pretty much kills any amusement she might have felt. "Dogs aren't the answer to everything," Will says kindly. "I mean. They're the answer to _most_ things...."

Winter says nothing, just stands there looking crushed. Abigail knows she ought to let him off the hook, pretend that she loves it here and really, there's no need to go to all this trouble on her account. It's just that she knows an excellent tactic when she sees one.

Adding her own pleading eyes to the mix, she asks in a small voice: "Maybe just for the weekend?"

Will holds out for all of half a minute before dragging the hand not gripping his phone tiredly down his face. "Fine," he groans. "You win. But only for the weekend, and _only_ if Dr. Bloom says it's okay."

Abigail all but pounces him for a hug he stands awkwardly still for, gingerly patting her back until she lets him go. Even Winter looks pleased around the eyes, subtle but genuine. Will tries to look put out, but he's pretty bad at it. She knows he doesn't really want to argue; he's just trying to be responsible, because someone has to be.

"Right, so...I'll go make that call. You two stay here. And stay out of trouble," he warns, pointing a finger at each of them in turn before stepping off a ways, presumably so Abigail won't have to hear Dr. Bloom explain what a terrible idea this is. The fact that he's trying is almost enough.

It's just her and Winter then, and she looks him over properly, grudgingly willing to admit Will has good taste. Still. "So...don't take this the wrong way, but I thought Will and Dr. Lecter...?"

Winter looks puzzled at first, but then he brightens in sudden comprehension, nodding firmly.

Abigail's brows jerk up in surprise. "Oh. Oh, so you're _just_ staying with him?"

"I'm a rescue," Winter confides, the very corners of his mouth turning up in a smile.

Abigail snorts, aiming for cynical and landing on fond. "Yeah, he does that. Pretty sure I'm one too."

A few yards away, Will's voice goes calm but dogged. Abigail tries not to listen; she's not ready to get her hopes up, but she's not quite ready to have them dashed, either. Winter watches her curiously, but without the ghoulish fascination of most people. It's a nice change.

"They really haven't started in on you yet," he says, not quite a question. "This place."

"Well, they're starting to _get_ to me, but no. Apparently I'm resistant and uncooperative," she says, rolling her eyes. Winter nods like that's the only reasonable option. Abigail tilts her head in thought. "You don't like doctors any better than Will does, do you?"

"Eh," Winter says, hunching a shoulder. "I like Dr. Lecter."

"He's a very likeable man," Abigail concedes wryly. The most frightening thing about Hannibal is the fact that she does like him. Despite her suspicions, there's a strange comfort in knowing that as long as she's polite about it, she could bring him any problem at all and not be turned away.

"Well," Will says as he returns, tucking away his phone, "I've got good news and bad news. You can come back with me for the evening, but you have to be back here before curfew. That's the bad news," he adds before Abigail's face can entirely fall. "Good news is: if things go okay today, then maybe you can come out next weekend. No promises, but Alana's coming around to the idea that keeping you here is just making you more determined to leave.

"One thing, though," he adds hesitantly, eyes flicking briefly to Winter and back. "If anyone asks, you tell them whatever you need to. But if they don't ask...."

"He doesn't exist?" Abigail guesses.

"I'm a ghost," Winter agrees smugly.

Will shakes his head. "And is the ghost riding back with us, or...?"

"Nah. I brought the bike."

"You have a bike?" Will and Abigail ask in unison, likely for very different reasons.

Winter shrugs. "It was in the barn."

Will looks slightly alarmed, as if he desperately wants to ask what else is in there, but instead he shakes his head. "In that case, meet us back at my place?"

Winter nods and immediately turns to go. Less distracted this time, Abigail is struck by how quietly he moves, the 'ghost' claim fully deserved.

Will watches him for a moment before turning back with a sheepish look. "Sorry about that. If I'd known he was going to follow me here, I'd have warned you, but he tends to show up when and where he pleases."

"Like a stray cat?"

"Rescue," Will corrects her, then promptly looks horrified. Apparently Winter's used that phrasing before, often enough for it to stick.

Abigail grins. "It's fine. I like him."

"Well, good," Will says, pleasantly surprised. "I like him too. Just...he's been through a lot, and therapy hasn't really been an option. So if he ever seems...odd, just remember he doesn't see the world quite the same way you or I would."

Abigail frowns. Winter had seemed odd already; does Will really not notice? Just how much odder does Winter get? And if this is their normal--

"Wait, so when he offered to break me out of here, he was serious?"

"Yes, so don't encourage him." Something of what she's thinking must show on her face, because he leans in with a smile. "We use our powers for good, Abigail."

She has to laugh to cover her relief. Even though he clearly sees she needs the reminder, she hasn't disappointed him. Maybe...even if he knows everything...maybe it won't be the end of the world after all.

She does notice he doesn't tell her Winter isn't dangerous, and she halfway hopes he is. Maybe it'll make knowing what she's done that much easier to swallow.

***

The soldier isn't sure whether he exceeded his orders or botched them entirely, so he makes an effort to get back first so he can stay the hell out of Graham's way. Not that he really thinks Graham's going to punish him for either--not that he really has orders--but better safe than sorry, right?

Maybe Graham hadn't known what he was walking into. The Red Room used to be a close-kept secret, but last he'd heard SHIELD was too, and now they're giving the FBI their marching orders. He'd looked Port Haven up after Graham went to sleep the night before, then quietly left to check the place out. The near-nonexistent security might have convinced him the facility was legit until he caught two of the night guys sharing a smoke in the parking lot, bitching about the cold, the girls, and Madame Director. Then he got curious.

Hydra's made him lazy. He's gotten so used to having a team to feed him information, he hadn't thought to bring any means of securing it on his own. Luckily the moron who left his phone on the charger in his car hadn't thought to screen-lock it either. Sitting in the driver's seat with the door not-quite closed, the soldier had fired up a quick search and learned more from what he didn't find than from what he did.

There are pictures of smiling doctors up on Port Haven's website, but none of the facility's top administrator. He looked up the doctors next, found more photos of them, their kids, their pets; Christmas dinners and company picnics; still no director. Her last name doesn't mean a thing, and Maria is a common name lots of places. On paper she's nothing but a list of accomplishments and diplomas. To the staff at a facility where women are left behind to be molded and shaped, she's Madame.

He'd known even then that he'd be following Graham in, that tripping whatever alarms were waiting before then would be a bad idea. He'd faded back and returned to base without getting any closer, more careful on his way out to leave no tracks behind. He's still not sure whether they got lucky this afternoon, but no wave of guards had shown up to apprehend them, and neither he nor Graham had had to fight their way out. All in all a boring mission, the very best kind.

What puzzles him is why Abigail's been left alone, detained only. It's possible they don't want to yank the FBI's chain just yet. All the same, it's only a matter of time before Hydra connects the soldier with Graham and Abigail by extension. He just hopes they can secure her release before then, or things could get messy. The soldier is proof Hydra and the Red Room can cooperate if it benefits them both.

He clambers up onto the roof when he hears the crunch of approaching tires, staying towards the rear of the house and keeping low. Two doors slam after the car pulls to a stop, and two voices echo up to him, slightly muffled by distance: Graham and the kid. So far everything is going according to plan.

"Winter?" Graham calls. The soldier twitches, habit and training pushing him to answer and fall in. He _wants_ to, even, and not just to make some poor bastard shit himself when he appears out of nowhere. He's not even sure why he's hanging back. Just to see what Graham will do, he supposes. And just because he can.

As he settles in to wait, he considers reminding Graham that the first rule of not being an idiot is not having any hostages that can be held against you. The thing is, he _likes_ Graham's particular brand of idiocy. And anyway, having coopted the soldier's skills for himself--wait, no, that's not how it goes; having _taken the soldier in_ \--Graham has every reason to expect a measure of reciprocity. A favor for a favor. Graham looks after the soldier, and the soldier looks after Graham's people. Simple.

Except it really isn't simple at all, because Graham's people seem to consist of Lecter, who doesn't need the soldier's help, the dogs, who are probably doing more for the soldier than he's doing for them, and Abigail.

So he'll focus on the kid.

He keeps an ear out for the pair below until Graham gets tired of standing on the front porch, waiting for him to show up and be let in. Eventually Graham makes noises about starting dinner and shuffles into the house, leaving Abigail outside with the dogs. She throws their toys for them when they bring them to her, pets and praises them while they wag their tails ecstatically, but when her arm gets tired, she settles onto the comfortable old chair that sits between the front windows and the porch steps.

She barely jumps when he drops down to the grass from the roof above, eyes dancing like she's been waiting for him to pull that very stunt. "You really are just like a cat."

"I'm pretty sure I've been told that before," he says, memory stirring sluggishly.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not surprised."

He peers at her face as he joins her on the porch, but...she's smiling. Relaxed. Teasing him. He keeps forgetting she's more a civilian than not; it'd taken...well. Months for him, but years for the other girls to get to that point.

"He mad?" he asks, nodding at the house. If she pretends not to get it, he'll follow her lead. It'll be easier on both of them if she doesn't.

She shakes her head. "Just worried about you. He wouldn't tell me why," she adds, reassuring him and fishing at once. She's an interesting one.

"I guess I've got some stuff of my own to deal with," he says with a shrug, not sure how much he should tell or how much she'd even want to know.

She cocks her head, studying him. She's new to it yet, still an open book to anyone who knows how to look, but there's a watchfulness in her that he recognizes, the need to know which way everyone around you will jump so you're never where they land. Knowledge is safety.

"Is that why you're here now?"

The soldier nods. If she's going to ask, he guesses he can give her at least part of the truth. "I was with some people who were...not good. I didn't _want_ to be; just…I didn't realize I even _had_ options until I ran into Graham. He told me to come talk to him, and…long story short: here I am."

"That easy?" Her tone says she knows it's not, but her eyes hope for a better answer. He wishes he had one to give her.

"It never is, but what can you do?"

"I'll settle for not being scared," she mumbles, eyes sliding away.

The soldier frowns. "Scared of what?"

She shrugs, playing with the folds of the scarf around her neck as she stares out across the dry fields, still patchy with snow. "That people will think I helped my dad. That maybe I did something to make him that way--or that I didn't, and it was just...chemical, or something he was born with, and maybe I'll go crazy one day too. That people are right, and it should've been me, and if it had been me, maybe he would've stopped. That I'm always going to wonder, and when the next girl's brother comes looking for answers, maybe that time I won't--have a clue what to do," she blurts out in a building rush, faltering only at the end.

"Damn," the soldier says without thinking. "That's a lot."

He surprises a laugh out of her: a little watery, but genuine enough. "You did ask," she reminds him with a lopsided smile. She snorts at herself a moment later, ducking her head. "I think I just told you more than I've told my own therapist. It's just…they all want me to talk about what happened, and how I feel about it, but that part's over. I was scared, it was awful, but it's done. It's thinking about the future that keeps me up at night, you know? But nobody wants to talk about where I go from here. They just want to keep me stuck in the past until they're satisfied."

He can't really relate; he'd give just about anything to have a past to get stuck in. But he gets not wanting to dwell too long on the things you'd rather forget.

"I guess there's not much I can do about most of that," he admits, "but the brothers--I can definitely help you there. C'mon, get up. Let me see you walk."

"Walk?" she echoes, not budging an inch. "You think I should model my way out of this?"

"Probably a better cover story than ballerinas nowadays, but no. Up," he urges, nodding encouragingly until she rises, the old chair creaking softly in counterpoint. "Let me see how you move. You had any training at all?"

"What, in self-defense?" she asks, hesitating still. "Were you a teacher or something?"

"Or something. One side of the porch and back. Please," he adds belatedly.

"My dad used to take me hunting," she offers as she makes a slow circuit. She's a little stiff from self-consciousness, but it tells him what he needs to know. At least she won't have any bad habits to unlearn.

"Rifles, then? You any good?"

She grimaces. "Decent. But I don't think I could go after someone with a rifle. It'd be too much like hunting people."

He doesn't personally see the problem, but to each their own. He also doesn't point out that she'll do whatever she has to if it comes down to her life or someone else's. She'll figure that out on her own if she hasn't already.

"Knives?" Her expression tightens even more; more bad memories there, he supposes. "All right. We'll see what we can do with handguns and hand-to-hand."

"Against you?" she asks incredulously. "I mean, you're...." She waves a hand in his direction that travels up, then up again. And then she sort of waves it in a circle, and he has to swallow a bark of laughter. Okay, so he's like twice her size. Big deal.

"I've taught girls half your age to kick my ass. One more's not gonna be the death of me."

"But Dr. Bloom might be if she catches you giving her patient a gun," Graham says as he opens the front door. He must've been listening from just the other side. Sneaky. The soldier approves.

"Yeah, well, you'd be next, except I don't want to step on Lecter's toes."

"Right?" Abigail says--agreeing with him, he's pretty sure, though she makes it sound like a question. Weird.

Graham does a startled double-take that ends with him shaking his head, like he's not sure what he just heard but doesn't intend to encourage them. "Well, dinner might not be up to Dr. Lecter's standards, but it's ready. Coming in?"

That question is for the soldier, but it doesn't feel like a trap. He nods. It's the right answer; Graham looks pleased.

"What about the dogs?" Abigail asks, glancing over her shoulder.

"Better leave them out here unless you want a rapt audience while you eat," Graham advises. "They're not supposed to beg, but it's a work in progress."

Dinner is batter-fried fish with salad, thick slices of bread cut fresh from the loaf, and potatoes Graham admits to putting through the microwave. They taste just fine to the soldier, but Graham and Abigail share a look of guilty amusement that has him freezing, fork poised halfway to his mouth.

"What?" he asks, cutting a tingle of suspicion off at the knees.

"Nothing," Graham assures him. "Just that I'd be banished from the kitchen if Hannibal caught me using a microwave. He's very particular about what he eats."

"Worth it, though," Abigail admits, her expression going dreamy. "He could make _oatmeal_ taste gourmet."

The soldier nods. That stew Lecter made was something else.

He expects dinner to be quietly awkward. He's kind of a third wheel here, and he knows Abigail hasn't missed the fact that he's still wearing his gloves at the table. She pretends not to notice, but she's got to be curious. Then Graham turns to her and out of the blue asks, "So what are they doing about school for you? Or had you already graduated?"

"This summer," she says to her plate. "I just have to get caught up first. They've got me enrolled in online courses, which is…actually pretty okay. I mean, it's not like I could go back to my old school, but…this is just easier."

The soldier sits up straighter. "Online courses?"

She launches into an explanation that he mostly follows, though he can hardly believe what he's hearing. Despite what his handlers have tried to tell him, he knows he's a fast learner. The thing is, he knows how to use and maintain a veritable arsenal, can pilot an aircraft or steer a tank, can do complex calculations on the fly that let him make shots that should be impossible, but he doesn't know who the fucking president is. He's heard dozens of catchphrases in the last week alone that he has no context for, and he keeps seeing the same street names in every US city, but he has no idea who any of those people are.

He can look these things up now that Graham's brought him the means, but the idea that you can just turn on a computer and get an entire education without ever leaving your home…it's amazing, but it puts that same wistful tickle at the back of his throat as the memory of that vanished summer day.

"I don't think we had those when I was growing up," is all he says in the end. What else is there to say, except, _Man, I wish_ \--

There's a name right there at the tip of his tongue, but it's a blank, a cork holding back a flood. The harder he tries to get a grip on it, the more slippery it becomes. Whatever, _whoever_ it is, they must've been important.

Graham lets Abigail stay right up to the wire, which means it's already late when they leave. They've got a long drive ahead of them, and it's going to be a long drive back for Graham. The soldier waits for a clear order this time, but Graham asks, "Could you stay here until I get back?" Abigail's right; he sounds worried.

The soldier nods. He doesn't like it; sitting on his hands means it's going to be two hours before he knows if Graham's in trouble. It doesn't help to know he brought it on himself. He could have watched over Graham's meeting with Abigail from afar. Only just like Graham himself, he hadn't wanted to wait and see. He'd gone for the big, showy gesture, rushed in like a hero, when anyone with any sense knew heroes were morons. They never think things through.

Well, he already knows they did a number on his head this time around. What's a little more proof?

Graham's flagging by the time he gets back in, shoulders slumped, eyelids drooping. Too tired to jump when he notices the soldier waiting for him on the couch, he pulls up short and stares, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and then blinking them wide in an effort to coax his brain awake. Here comes the reprimand the soldier's been dodging for hours, but even before it's delivered, he feels…honestly kind of bad. Graham looks like crap. He should be in bed, not staying up to deal with the soldier's attitude.

"You know," Graham begins, "if you're interested in online classes--"

"You asked about Hydra," the soldier blurts simultaneously. "You didn't say anything about the Red Room."

Graham slowly closes his mouth as they trade puzzled frowns. Wait, what?

"Red...Room?" Graham echoes, screwing his face up in thought as he parts the sea of dogs to go sit down at the foot of his bed. "Why does that sound familiar? Wait, you mean--like the Black Widow?"

"'The?'" the soldier asks with an uncertain smile, waiting to hear the punch line.

"Yeah. You know. Like the Avengers?" Graham waits expectantly for him to get it until he's struck by a thought. "Hold on, are you saying there's more?"

The soldier swallows as the pit of his stomach goes weightless. "There's a whole program. Or, I mean...there was. Did something happen to them?" Jesus, he knows what they do is dangerous, but...his girls? All of them?

"I'm...not sure the political structure still exists that would allow them to operate," Graham says carefully, taken aback by his concern. The soldier fights off the chagrin that tries to slither its way in. Even Graham knows the soldier's not supposed to get attached; maybe Madame's right to be so pissed. "Why would you think Port Haven was Red Room, though?" Graham asks, derailing the soldier's impending funk.

"The director," he answers promptly. "She looks good on paper, but there's nothing anywhere, and I mean anywhere, that ties her back to an actual life before she got the job. Staff calls her 'Madame,' and she runs a facility that keeps girls on lockdown while they change the way they think. I used to know a Madame really well, and that sounds like her right down the line."

Graham rocks back, not liking this theory one bit, only to lean forward again as doubt creeps in. "But you said yourself security was a joke."

"Yeah, well, Madame wants the place to look like a sanitarium, not a prison; the last place looked like a school, but it wasn't the kind parents came to visit. And the security may seem like a joke to me, but I bet the people inside don't feel that way."

Graham makes a face. "Thanks for the nightmare fuel."

"Uh...you're welcome?"

Graham chuckles, mostly breath. "Never mind. Look, I appreciate you wanting to help, but it's probably just a coincidence. Most of the time, calling someone 'Madame' isn't exactly a compliment. She's probably just your average petty tyrant with a superiority complex."

"Could be," the soldier allows. "But everybody thought Hydra was out of the game, too."

Graham sucks in a deep breath. "Okay, maybe I should explain nightmare fuel after all."

"Should I google it?" the soldier asks, cocking his head. He knows all about Google. It was one of the first things they taught him, two handlers back. Maybe pretending he didn't understand _any_ slang had been a bit much. "You look beat."

Graham flashes a lopsided smile, unperturbed at the soldier's frank assessment. "Haven't been getting my beauty sleep. Or much of any sleep, really. Price threatened to autopsy me today; said he was worried I was going to come after his brain." He's smirking as he says it, but-- "Um--that's a joke," he explains before the soldier can decide whether he needs to pay this guy a visit. "Zombie joke. Just...in case you were wondering."

"Price," the soldier echoes thoughtfully. The first few days he spent investigating Graham's contacts have a muddy quality that's faded the longer he remains out of Hydra's hands, but he remembers this one. "Jimmy Price?"

Graham scrubs a hand through his already-messy hair. "Yeah, sorry--we should've talked about names already, I guess. I knew I might be introducing you to Abigail, just not that soon. I mean...I know I asked for something to call you, but...you don't really know your name, do you?"

The soldier shakes his head. "I know it's not Jimmy, though," he adds quickly. He's not sure where this instant dislike is coming from, just that it's real and it's _his_.

"But James is okay?"

"I feel more like a James than a Jimmy," he admits after rolling both names over in his head, the latter only grudgingly. "But everybody knows a James, right?"

"That's what I was counting on. We can run some more names by you if you like. Just maybe in the morning," Graham says around a yawn.

"Sure. Beauty sleep?"

"Any sleep I can get. Thank God it's the weekend," he adds, nudging the smaller, fluffier orange dog off his feet as he prepares to rise. He pauses with both hands braced on the edge of the bed, eyeing the soldier curiously. "One thing I don't get...you said you knew someone in the Red Room. The only Widow I know of looks maybe in her early thirties, and you look like you're in your late twenties. Just how old were you when you met this Madame? How...how long did they have you?" he asks, tension coiling through him like he's bracing himself to hear the reply.

The soldier hates this question because he never knows how to answer it. Sometimes that's gotten him in trouble. This time he responds with a helpless shrug. "I dunno...I think I've always been this age. I mean...time doesn't really count when you're frozen, right?"

Graham stares, his already-pale face going bloodless as he realizes the soldier is serious. " _Frozen?_ "

***

The typical Monday-morning grumbles fall off in Steve's wake as he makes his way through SHIELD's halls, which would be hilarious if there were someone around to point out the innate ridiculousness of that. The fact that everyone seems to believe he's never wanted to curse Monday and die or had to be literally dragged out of bed is just...sad. He imagines the chronic complainers have enjoyed the week he's been gone; their coworkers maybe not so much.

Kicked back in one of the visitor chairs with a coffee in hand, Rumlow's waiting in Steve's office when he gets in. He tries not to feel like a slacker boss--he's fifteen minutes early--but he's never quite been able to get a handle on Rumlow. The man's a good agent, reliable in the field, but Steve's never been sure whether he makes a point of not buying into the Captain America hype because he knows Steve hates it or because he genuinely doesn't care. If it's the latter, they might have become friends, only Rumlow's always kept things strictly professional. It doesn't help that Steve still feels very much the green officer with STRIKE, a show pony they're still breaking in. He'd expected it--he'd felt that way off and on with Dum Dum and the guys for...weeks, definitely. Not going on a year. Maybe it's just that he lacks a Bucky to make things work.

"Morning, Cap. Glad to be back?" Rumlow asks without shifting from his lazy sprawl.

"Would you believe me if I said yes?" Steve asks, pulling out his chair.

 _'Course I would, punk_ , drawls the ghost in his head. _You always were a glutton for_ \--

Rumlow huffs a laugh. "Yeah? What was it this time? Charity dinners or the meet and greet circuit?"

"Neither," Steve says with a smile only slightly forced, taking the excuse of booting up his computer to look away. "Word had it there was an agent who wanted to come over, but only if he could talk to Captain America."

"So basically a trap."

Steve's mouth twitches unhappily. "Maybe. I guess we'll never know. He never made the meet, so he either changed his mind or got found out before he could get there." He sighs, the dissatisfaction of a job left undone still niggling at him. "It was nice to be back in Europe again, but I still wish I knew what happened."

"What happened was you avoided a trap," Rumlow insists, shaking his head. "Or fell for one, if someone just wanted to get you out of the picture for a week. Seriously, Cap. You need to learn to be more suspicious."

"Oh, yeah?" He's been told that for years, but Rumlow sees enemies behind every shadow. It seems like a depressing way to live. "So what did you guys do while I was gone?"

"Just a standard retrieval. The usual," Rumlow says, finishing off his coffee in two big gulps and sitting forward to toss the empty cup into the trash. "Nowhere near as fun as touring the safehouses of Europe. So do they have us gearing up for anything today or what?"

He sounds about as bored as ever, which Steve supposes technically is good. Exciting can be overrated.

He tells himself it's the excitement of the past that he misses and not the people, not one person in particular.

 _You're a lousy liar, Steve_.

He sighs. He knows.


	4. Chapter 4

Will opens his eyes in the close, dark silence of early morning and stares up at the shadowed ceiling above. The blue glow of the digital alarm clock does a slow pulse as numbers tick over: _2:53, 2:59, 3:06_. He sits up, treading sheet and blankets like a swimmer until he swings one leg out of bed, then the other. The floor is cold under his bare feet.

Six pairs of eyes blink open to watch as he rises, swaying like a sapling in a strong breeze. When he turns for the front door and not the bathroom, one low shape heaves itself up and pads over to join him. It expands with each step, shaggy fur sprouting feathers, antlers piercing through its broadening skull. It makes a strange, low sound that twists and distorts as Will fumbles the security chain and unlocks the door. A quiet yip from upstairs echoes down in answer.

Pushing the screen door open, Will shivers as the night air wraps around him, still but heavy with chill. The boards of the porch are icy, but the ground is worse, frost clinging to his numbing feet as small stones dig into his soles. The feathered stag keeps pace at his back, and he's glad of the company. There's somewhere he needs to be, and he doesn't want to go--

"Hey. Graham? Hey."

\--alone?

"Hey, Graham. Where are you going?"

Will blinks and blinks again. Jesus, he's freezing. Why is he freezing? And why is he standing on his front lawn in--God, it must be the middle of the night. There's someone standing in front of him: Winter, he realizes, in nothing but jeans and a pale thermal shirt. He doesn't seem to notice the cold at all, even though he's as barefoot as Will.

Winston licks his dangling hand as Buster stands up on his hind legs, bracing his front paws on Will's thigh. His paw pads are cold enough to make Will look down, and he's bewildered to find himself still in a thin tee and boxers, what he went to bed in and not a stitch more.

"What…what's going on?" he mumbles in a voice gravelly from sleep, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Dunno," Winter says with a lopsided shrug. "I heard the door open, but I thought you were letting somebody outside. Dogs seemed restless though, so I went to check. You didn't seem like you were all there, so…I woke you up? I think?"

"Yeah," Will mutters, rubbing hard at his arms. "Yeah, I think you did."

Winter frowns. "Let's get you inside," he decides, holding out an arm as if to turn Will bodily around but hanging back from actually touching him. "You sleepwalk much?"

Will breathes out a humorless laugh. "To the best of my knowledge…?"

He doesn't think he ever has in the past, but if he made it back to bed safely, how would he know? He's almost tempted to blame the litany of horrors Winter had delivered up just a few nights back, as easily as one of Will's lectures to his classes, but he doubts it's that simple. He sees the worst that human beings are capable of on a daily basis. It sometimes makes his nights unpleasant, but not in any extraordinary way. On the other hand, he doesn't usually have the aftermath sleeping in his spare bedroom with one of his dogs for company.

Whatever the source, the sleepwalking is more unsettling than he'd like to admit. He's never been able to trust his mind, but his body has always been reliable. It does what's asked of it and doesn't let him down too often; it doesn't stage revolts or take off for parts unknown without input from his brain. That it has tonight is frightening. If Winter hadn't been there to stop him, who knows how far he might have wandered or where he might have ended up.

Will goes and gets an extra blanket out of the hall closet, shivering all the while. While he's busy with that, Winter locks the door, checks the downstairs windows, and then goes back to hovering at the door with a dissatisfied frown. Just as Will's crawling back into bed, Winter makes a beeline for the kitchen and returns with a ladder-backed chair, which he wedges under the doorknob.

"Might not keep you from wandering," he explains gruffly, "but there's no way I'll miss you trying to get out."

"I don't know that I'll be able to sleep again," Will admits, "but thanks for the thought."

Winter nods. "I'll keep--"

"Hey, no," Will interrupts gently. "Really. There's no reason for you to stay up. And anyway," he switches tactics at Winter's skeptical look, "the dogs will wake you up if I try it again."

Winter's mouth pulls to one side, unconvinced, but he doesn't argue. Will doesn't kid himself that means Winter's actually going to give in and go back to sleep.

Curling into the blankets as Winter heads back upstairs, Will distracts himself by listening to the faint creaking of the stairs, the brief silences as Winter steps over the squeaky third and seventh steps. There's another space of quiet as he walks down the hall, and then the soft settling of bedsprings. The noise has Buster's ears perking comically; with only a last glance at his master, the little dog peels away from where he'd been crowding the edge of the bed and gallops up the stairs, tags jingling and claws scrabbling on wood. A louder jolt of springs and a low, surprised murmur, and the house is quiet once more.

Will grins to himself and worms an arm out from under the blankets, reaching over to pet Winston in hopes of easing the melting look of concern aimed his way. Winston licks his wrist and puts a questioning paw on the mattress.

"Come on, then," Will invites, scooting over a little. Winston requires no more urging, settling down at his side with his head on his paws, tail thumping out a slow, contented beat as Will buries his hand in warm fur.

Will's own sense of peace doesn't last. He doesn't like bringing his problems to others' attention; there's too much about him already that could be classified 'unstable' without handing out more ammunition. What he wants most at the moment is to be told this is fixable, that the right change in his habits or diet or sleeping environment will nip this sleepwalking thing in the bud.

He also feels like if he doesn't vent to someone about Winter's revelations, he might simply explode.

There's only one person he can talk to who can help him with either of these things, and Will can only hope Hannibal is an early riser, because he doesn't think he can wait until their scheduled appointment day. He has classes to teach, doesn't want to do this over the phone, but if he leaves early and calls on the way, maybe he can catch Hannibal before he gets too busy.

He's not sure what it says that he apparently expects Hannibal to have a solution on tap for him, that he'll be able to just walk in, deliver up a list of symptoms and an elevator pitch of fresh grievances, and walk out feeling better. Except that he nearly always does feel better after talking with Hannibal, even if nothing is solved over the course of their conversations. Just having that sounding board--attentive, inquisitive, but entirely non-judgmental--is enough.

That he'll be discussing the one man he's sure won't abandon him to an institution with the one man he's certain won't consign him to one is just one of life's little ironies.

***

One of the nicer benefits of maintaining one's own practice is the ability to set the hours to suit. Hannibal has many interests, not all of them clandestine, which keep him up later than most: dinner parties, gallery receptions, post-performance mingling. As a result, his first appointment of the day usually falls around ten in the afternoon.

To say he's surprised to receive a phone call from Will shortly after seven is an understatement, but he doesn't turn him away. There's a vast difference between rudeness and desperation, and besides…he's curious.

Will arrives a mere twenty minutes later, long enough for Hannibal to rise, make a quick stab at his morning ablutions, and get coffee started for the both of them. He doesn't bother to dress, and when he meets Will at the front door in his dressing gown and pajamas, Will instantly flushes: at visible proof of the imposition, he suspects, not the informality of Hannibal's attire.

Moments later he's forced to amend that theory as he catches Will staring at his bare feet, eyes glazed with incredulity. He keeps his amusement firmly under wraps. His professional appearance is both a carefully cultivated mask and a source of genuine pleasure, but it would be ingenuous to pretend he didn't enjoy the startled reactions of those few permitted to peek beneath the mask's edges.

"Will," he says warmly, stepping aside and sweeping a hand out in welcome. "Please, come in."

"Thanks again for this," Will says as he steps gingerly inside, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat before Hannibal can offer to take it from him. He looks a little like a well-brought-up boy in a museum, afraid to touch anything lest it break. "You didn't have to invite me to your home."

"It's no trouble. And I believe you have classes later today, yes? It was the simplest solution to accommodate both our schedules."

"Still," Will protests, even as he follows Hannibal further into his home without question. "That's a lot of trust to place in one of your patients."

"Yes, it would be, wouldn't it?" Hannibal agrees, restraining a smile as a series of expressions flicker rapid-fire across Will's face: surprise, realization, doubt, confusion. He can see Will intends to ask--yes, he's trusted, or no, he's not a patient?--only to lose his nerve at the last second. Brushing any potential awkwardness aside, Hannibal says, "You mentioned you had an unusually disturbed night?"

"Yeah," Will says glumly, distracted by the reminder of why he's here and perhaps by the smell of coffee. Hovering self-consciously in the middle of Hannibal's kitchen, he keeps his eyes trained out the window until Hannibal sets down a pair of heavy glass coffee cups. Instantly Will's stoic look is transformed by the relieved gratitude of a drowning man thrown a life preserver. "I'm sure you've heard a lot weirder, but…I woke up a few hours ago on my front lawn headed…I don't really know where," Will admits with a slow shake of his head. "Sleepwalking, apparently. If Winter hadn't been there to wake me up, who knows how far I'd have gotten."

Hannibal pauses, looking up from the cup he's filling for Will. He knows Will's sleep is often disrupted, but this is new. Perhaps a sign the shadows that haunt Will's mind are growing more restless.

"Although I may be, is it safe to assume you're not sleepwalking now?" He intends it as a joke, needling Will gently, but Will averts his eyes instantly in chagrin.

"I'm sorry it's so early."

"Never apologize for coming to me. Office hours are for patients," Hannibal informs him, putting at least one of Will's questions to rest. "My kitchen is always open to friends."

Stirring a single spoonful of sugar into the coffee, no cream, he holds the cup out to Will and is pleased to see him accept it without hesitation, though it's less sugar than Will usually prefers. The coffee is also less bitter than the over-brewed travesties Will tosses back like tumblers of indifferent whiskey, more interested in the effect than the taste. One sip, and Will's brows arch in pleasant surprise. Hannibal's satisfaction is a smug curl of warmth in the pit of his stomach.

A little bemused at needing the reminder at all, he tells himself to focus on the business at hand.

"Onset of sleepwalking in adulthood is less common than in children," he mentions as he begins pouring his own cup.

"Yeah. Could it be a seizure?" Nervousness mixes oddly with hope in Will's tone, but Hannibal can guess easily at the source of both. As frightening as a seizure would be, it would at least be an explanation rooted in the physical, not the mental.

Hannibal tilts his head briefly to the right in something not quite a nod, acknowledgement without agreement. "I'd argue good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress. Jack Crawford has gotten your hands very dirty."

To his surprise, instead of jumping to defend his capabilities or Jack's judgment, Will scoffs, his mouth a bitter twist. "PTSD's a pretty strong diagnosis for just peeking into a few ugly rooms."

Interesting. "Do you say that because you feel you should be unaffected by what you've seen, or because you're comparing your experiences to someone else's?"

Will's jaw clenches as he glares into the depths of his coffee cup, knuckles shifting under pale skin as he grips it tighter. The glass is thick, but the heat must be scalding his palm before he shifts it into his other hand.

"I had a long talk with Winter Friday night," he admits, words growled out in tightly-controlled anger. "Do you want to know what he was doing when he wasn't being sent to kill people--or training little girls to do it, apparently."

Hannibal arches a brow. "If you want to tell me."

"Not much to tell; he wasn't doing a damn thing. They were freezing him between missions--literally, in some kind of…of cryotube or something. I know," Will cuts in before Hannibal's frown can fully take root. "It should've killed him the first time, much less the fortieth, or however many times it was. And as soon as they had him thawed out, they were sticking him in some kind of specialized electric chair to fry whatever parts of his brain survived being defrosted. It's a wonder he wasn't reduced to a vegetable years ago. Decades, maybe. He didn't even know what year it was until I told him, and as far as he knows, he's always been the age he is now.

"Here's the thing, though," Will says, eyes snapping up to meet Hannibal's without flinching. "I understand killers. When I'm in their heads or they're in mine, what they do almost makes sense. But the one thing I cannot fathom is wanting to _erase_ someone like that while they're still alive. The man he was--they didn't just kill him. They didn't just remake him. They emptied him out and didn't even bother filling him up again, just dropped in enough of their trash that he'd hold a shape."

Will is electric in his rage, compellingly so. Hannibal has only seen hints of it in the past, aimed mostly at Freddie Lounds and the then-unknown mother figure of the 'lost boys' of Will's previous case, even Jack Crawford when he aimed his suspicions too pointedly at Abigail. A man with a strong urge to nurture and protect, Will has the potential to be truly vicious in defense of those he finds worthy. Winter, it seems, has found an indelible place on that list.

"Do you think he'd benefit from having someone to discuss these things with?" Hannibal offers, taking a sip of his coffee to give Will time to consider.

Will's bark of laughter is strained. "Yes. Absolutely. That's what I want to say. The reality is that he'll probably think you're asking for a mission report and give you more facts than you ever wanted without them touching him in the slightest. He doesn't even know he's traumatized. _I_ don't even know he's traumatized. If anything, he's terrifyingly well-adjusted to the world as he sees it, except that the world as he sees it is…wrong. I hope. I have to admit, he's got me wondering."

"How so?"

"He followed me to Port Haven Friday afternoon," Will says, eyes sliding away at last as he drops them to his coffee once more. "Turns out I'd told him just enough to make him think the place was a Red Room front, and what he found when he checked the place out just convinced him further."

"Red Room. Like the Black Widow?" Hannibal asks, brows arching.

"Widows, apparently. The Red Room had him before Hydra, and…in a plot twist I'm really not happy about, it turns out Port Haven is alike enough to what he remembers to make him think Abigail and I were in danger. And what does he do?" Will asks, glancing up again as raw incredulity twists his expression. "He comes in after us, even though the idea of getting caught again has to be a nightmare."

"You are his only point of stability," Hannibal points out, though he suspects it's more than that. Whether it's the unthinking obedience Winter seems to feel is owed or a dim reflection of whatever still exists of the man beneath the programming remains to be seen.

Will snorts. "Yeah, I think that's the dogs, actually. But he does seem surprisingly willing to look after people if given the opportunity. He took to Abigail right off, and…well, there was the sleepwalking thing."

"Which brings us back to determining the cause of its onset," Hannibal reminds him, smoothly bringing them back on track despite Will's attempt to deflect. "I know you're aware that there is no definitive yardstick for trauma, one which is the same for every person. The fact that you've suffered fewer hardships than Winter in no way invalidates your reactions to what you've endured. What you see, the minds you allow to inhabit your own, would be difficult for anyone, even if it were to happen by choice."

"I wasn't _forced_ back into the field," Will protests.

"I wouldn't say 'forced.' 'Manipulated' would be the word I'd choose."

"I can handle it," Will insists with a touch of a growl, shifting sharply on his feet.

Hannibal averts his eyes under the excuse of setting his coffee aside. "Somewhere between denying horrible events and calling them out lies the truth of psychological trauma."

"So I _can't_ handle it." It's the sort of verbal cue that would prompt most people into rescinding their concern; politeness demands it.

Hannibal braces his hands on the edge of the counter, pinning Will under his steady regard. "Your experience may have overwhelmed ordinary functions that give you a sense of control," he replies, gentle but firm.

Unable to remain still, Will turns a little away from him, starting up a round of the nervous pacing he usually saves for Hannibal's office. "If my body is walking around without my permission, you'd say that's a loss of control?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Caught out, unable to argue, Will's fierce façade cracks to bare the sick worry lurking beneath. Hannibal wonders if Will has any inkling of how vulnerable he looks in that moment, if this display of wounded confusion is a gift offered up in trust or a sign that Will has forgotten to guard himself against Hannibal's observations. He could put forward nearly any explanation at all for Will's behavior right now, and so long as it let him preserve his faith in his own sanity, Will would swallow it without question.

Hannibal watches him a moment longer, commits Will's lost expression to marble in his memory palace, and regretfully lets the moment pass.

"Sleepwalkers demonstrate a difficulty handling aggression," he says instead, drawing Will's attention back to him. "Earlier you seemed quite incensed on Winter's behalf. Are you experiencing difficulty with aggressive feelings?"

"You could say that," Will agrees, taking a deep breath he blows out harshly. "Part of me knows staying off Hydra's radar is the smartest thing we could do. The rest of me's not sure how well I'd deal with the temptation if I knew where to find them."

Hannibal keeps his expression serene, but inwardly he's intrigued. He has yet to measure Will's true capacity for violence, but Hydra presents an opportunity not equaled since Garrett Jacob Hobbs: the chance for Will to cloak his desires in righteousness.

"A dangerous game," Hannibal cautions, "perhaps best played with a team. Do you still think the Avengers would be too great a risk to approach? If the Black Widow could shed some light on our friend's past…."

"And find out the hard way she's as compromised as SHIELD? Pass," Will mutters grimly. "I don't think I trust Captain America himself at this point…which I guess probably doesn't surprise you as much as someone who grew up on those stories," Will realizes with mild embarrassment.

"On the contrary, my grandmother used to credit his efforts as the reason my family didn't suffer more extensively at the hands of the Nazis." It's fortunate she died before realizing their downfall had only been delayed. It would have broken her heart. "That said, I see your point."

"Well, that's a relief," Will admits. "I keep waiting to hear that I've crossed over into outright paranoia, and I'm not sure whether I'll be more grateful or worried when I do." He manages a strained smile, as if he's making a joke, but it crumbles almost immediately. "You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. I'm beginning to feel more like an old mug."

"You entered into a devil's bargain with Jack Crawford," Hannibal warns. "It takes a toll."

"Oh, Jack isn't the _devil, _" Will says, leaving Hannibal to wonder just what Will thinks Jack is.__

__"When it comes to how far he's willing to push you to get what he wants, he's certainly no saint."_ _

__Will has nothing to say to that, unable to argue against something so manifestly true._ _

__Vaguely unsettled by the silence, Hannibal takes refuge in politeness. "More coffee?" he offers as Will knocks back the rest of his._ _

__Having carried his point, he prepares to school his face to calm impassivity, wary of letting any hint of victory show, but the effort proves premature at best._ _

__For the first time in recent memory, Hannibal finds his satisfaction in winning an argument to be oddly lacking._ _

____

***

With Graham vacating the premises early--seeing the dogs and the soldier fed but barely taking enough time for himself to shower--the soldier rattles around the house like a spent casing, feeling useless and finding nowhere good to settle. There's the tablet Graham left, but the soldier side-eyes it each time he passes Graham's worktable, wary of tripping the wrong memory and triggering another episode. He'd abandoned the rusty old motor Graham had tasked him with directly after the last near-disaster, and Graham hadn't said a word. Now he feels guilty for not pushing through and finishing the job. He never would've been let off the hook so easily before.

He pulls the motor back out into the middle of the floor again, sitting down cross-legged and reaching for a rag and a can of cleaning solvent. He'll take it slow this time. At least he knows what's coming.

Only nothing does. No matter how deeply he breathes, how familiar the curves and angles of steel and nuts and bolts feel under his fingers, the sharp-edged flashes of memory stay buried. It's almost like they've gone into hiding, preferring to strike when his guard is down, and doesn't that just figure?

When he grows disgusted with waiting, he shrugs his shoulders, squares his jaw, and rolls up his sleeves.

Piece by piece he finesses the old hulk apart, years of rust and grime no match for precise metal fingers. He cleans each part as he goes, the work mindless and soothing, no different from cleaning his guns. From out of nowhere, he recalls a snatch of conversation he'd overheard between two of the techs, something about a bad brain day. Not getting ambushed inside his own head: maybe this is what having a good brain day is like.

Once the motor is disassembled in full, he arranges the parts neatly on the tarp and just sits for a long moment, surveying his work. It's nothing anyone couldn't have done with a little strength and patience, but it's unexpectedly satisfying. _Mission complete_ , with no mess at all.

He nudges the little propeller with a forefinger to a more pleasing angle and catches himself smiling faintly.

Noon rolls around and finds him pacing again, the skin on the back of his neck creeping in counterpoint to the rumble of his stomach. The dogs watch patiently as he approaches the kitchen and stands at the doorway looking in, only to turn and walk away again. They're used to the routine by now, no longer scrambling past him to stand hopefully by their bowls. He almost wishes they would; it'd been easier to force himself over the line from wood to tile with the excuse of checking their water dishes.

He knows he's being ridiculous, that Graham hasn't cared any of the previous times he'd seen to his own maintenance, that Lecter went out and specifically brought back supplies for his use. He doesn't think for one moment he's going to be punished if he walks in there and fixes himself a sandwich. But if there's one thing he hates more than being frozen, it's being _unfrozen_ around the unforgiving rock of his last meal, and it doesn't matter a bit that he doesn't intend for that to ever happen again. He's never known before when he'll be put back on ice, because it's not his job to know. It's his handler's job, like it's his handler's job to make sure he's fed, because his handler knows the schedule. He can trick himself when he eats with company, but alone it doesn't feel safe.

With a loud jingle of tags, Buster stands up and trots past him to pause by the kitchen table, looking back with a wagging tail and curiously pricked ears. When the soldier hesitates, he barks, as if to ask what's the holdup.

"Fine," the soldier mutters, gratitude leaking through his attempts to sound put-upon. The dogs don't notice the difference.

He bullies himself into checking the cupboards, pulling out anything that catches his eye: canned soup, bread and sandwich fixings, the greenest of the bananas. The damn thing still tastes inexplicably wrong, but the sharp tang is better than the cloying blandness of the riper ones. As he forges ahead with his lunch plans, he slowly begins to relax. First rule of mission-readiness is to secure every advantage he can, and that starts with fueling the ravenous engine of his metabolism. He'll thank himself for it later if he ends up in a scrape.

By the time he clears away his dishes, he's starting to feel pretty good about the day. Emboldened by success, he flops down into one of the faded, stuffed chairs near the windows and eyes the tablet sitting innocently dark by Graham's weird fishing supplies. He could turn it on, look up some of the initials he's been seeing everywhere: JFK, MLK, LOL. He could find out what's been going on in the world that the Black Widow program has been shelved.

He could also snap back to himself fifteen minutes later in the center of a circle of destruction. Not exactly the way he wants to pay Graham back for taking him in. Admittedly, it's usually _people_ he goes after: the techs most often, because he doesn't always remember _why_ they're hurting him until he snaps out of it, but also any guard, operative or visiting bigwig who happens to get in his way.

He's been better since Hydra stumbled on the idea of giving him a sense of continuity, but that doesn't help him now. His handlers are all square-jawed former soldiers with big blue eyes and neat blond hair, built solid enough they probably think they have some hope of taking him down if memory fails entirely. They're about the polar opposite of Graham, who doesn't really remind him of anyone, not even when he thinks back as far as he can, all the way to the Red Room, and Madame, and--

_"You deal with him, then," the colonel snarls, arm swinging out sharp and wild in the soldier's direction. The soldier stands like a rock in the sunlit office with the huge windows and heavy furniture, eyes fixed on Karpov with flat disinterest. "If he weren't so effective--"_

_"Is he insubordinate?" asks the woman in blue. He's supposed to call her 'Madame.' A tickle in the back of his head suggests another language, another word that's similar but not quite the same in sound or meaning, but you're not supposed to backtalk a lady. He's not sure who taught him that, but he's pretty sure it's true._

_"No. No, he follows every order you give him. It's_ how _he does it," Karpov snaps. "If a machine could_ be _insolent, I'd say he was insolent, but he does nothing that could be complained of directly. He's_ sly," _Karpov accuses, lips peeled back from clenched teeth. "We've tried to break him of it, but punishment doesn't impress him, and rewards don't interest him. If I didn't know better, I'd say he had the wits burned right out of him, but--"_

_"You know he's not stupid."_

Nope. Which is funny, because he's pretty sure he remembers taking all the stupid with him.

"And apparently I'm not the only one," he mutters aloud to the dog sneakily weaseling its way into his lap. Once Buster sees he has the soldier's attention, he jumps up the rest of the way, tail wagging a mile a minute. "We really gotta work on your survival skills."

Buster breaks into a big, doggy grin, tongue lolling out as the soldier strokes a hand down his back. The little guy is warm and solid, stocky body nearly vibrating with happiness at the attention. It's so far removed from anything the soldier knows, the sheer novelty is grounding.

"You're not gonna listen to me anyway, are you?" the soldier asks with a sigh, gingerly rubbing an ear between forefinger and thumb the way he's seen Graham do.

Buster licks his hand and leans in for more.

Maybe desensitization is the way to go.

***

Will gets one foot inside the house before he stops in his tracks, absently petting the dogs milling at the door to greet him. He's not sure which is more worthy of his awe: the fully-disassembled motor laid out for inspection or the deadly assassin picking himself up off the floor where he'd been lying, casually brushing dog hair from his clothes. Winter looks freshly-abandoned, and Will doesn't doubt that if he'd been a little quieter about coming home, he'd have caught at least a glimpse of a dogpile that makes it hard to hold a face-splitting grin in check.

"Hey," is all he says, not wanting to call too much attention to what Winter's been up to in case it makes him self-conscious. "Anything happen while I was out?"

Winter shakes his head. "Still quiet. Madame's the only one we might've tipped off," he adds, missing entirely Will's rusty invitation to be told the minutia of someone else's day, "and she wouldn't move anyway until she knows all the angles. We've got a little space to breathe on that front, if that's what you're worried about."

"If she is Red Room, that is."

Winter nods amiably at the reminder, but Will doubts his attempt at playing the voice of reason has much effect. "So did Lecter have anything to say about your sleepwalking?"

Will sighs, reaching back to hold the screen door open again to let the dogs rush out to do their business. "Yes and no," he says, dumping his keys onto the side table and shrugging out of his jacket. "He thought it might be stress. PTSD, even." He chances a glance at Winter, half-expecting to see masked derision, but there's only listening curiosity with a trace of bafflement. "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? Like what soldiers get when they've been through a war."

Frowning uncertainly, like Will's speaking a language he knows but with the words all out of order, Winter tips his head to one side and asks, "Shell shock?"

Will blinks in surprise. "Wow. I haven't heard it called that in...a long time. You're right, by the way--they started calling it the other name when people realized it wasn't just soldiers who went through it. Which isn't to say I agree with the diagnosis," he's quick to add. "I can handle what I do. I've _been_ handling what I do. It's just been since the Hobbs case that it's been getting...difficult."

Winter's faint frown turns thoughtful. "You mean Abigail's dad?" Will nods. "Was that the first time you pulled the trigger?"

"Yes, but...it's not that simple," Will admits, tucking his chin to his shoulder as his eyes slide away. "It's not a guilty conscience that's keeping me up at night."

"Nah. It's the fact that you don't feel guilty, isn't it?" Much like Hannibal, his tone holds neither judgment nor surprise. "I've seen a lot of first kills, you know. It hits everybody different, but sometimes the easiest ones can be the hardest to get past. I mean, on the one hand, you beat the bad guys--good job, right?"

Will huffs a quiet laugh, seeing instantly where Winter's going with that argument. "But on the other hand, I'm supposed to feel bad for taking a life, and telling myself I did the right thing feels like I'm letting myself off too easy."

"Yep. Thing is, that guilt? It's just fear. You're used to thinking of yourself as a good person," Winter says with a shrug, nodding at Will's helpless wince, "and you're not sure if this changes anything. It doesn't, by the way," he adds with perfect confidence. "Feeling bad wouldn't make you a better person any more than feeling good about it would make you a monster. You killed a guy who would've killed you and protected the people you were supposed to protect. I'd say that's worth a bit of job satisfaction."

Will wants to reject that matter-of-fact assessment, but he knows the urge stems from the same place as his guilt. Part of him wants to punish himself for not feeling the way he should--the way he _thinks_ he should. Even his expectations are complicated.

"The job's part of the problem," Will admits, riding out a fresh wave of shame for unburdening himself to someone who has enough problems of their own. "When I'm on a case…the way I interpret a scene. I don't just replay what happened; I step into the killer's shoes. I _become_ them for a little while. And some of them are harder to get rid of afterwards than others."

This is the point at which most people back away slowly or come to all the wrong conclusions, offering to distract him from the memory and not the unwelcome guest inside his head.

Winter arches a brow. "You're afraid you're losing your conscience to these guys?"

All the tension drains out of Will on a single, relieved sigh. "Yes."

"Because I'm pretty sure Hobbs at least would _want_ you to feel guilty for his death," Winter points out earnestly, making Will's breath catch in surprise. "The others, too. I mean, if you were mowing down civilians for fun, I'm guessing that'd be pretty out of character, but getting a taste for hunting the hunters? That's probably not something they'd put in your head. That's probably all you."

That shouldn't be comforting, but stacked against everything he's feared for longer than he cares to admit, it lifts a great weight off his mind. He's fully aware of the irony of drawing said comfort from a killer, but Winter isn't using his best guess. He hasn't done his research. He _knows_ : what it's like to take a life, but also what separates men from monsters.

"I guess you've given this talk a lot, huh?" He wouldn't be surprised. Winter's got 'caretaker' written all over him.

Winter snorts, one corner of his mouth curling up in vindictive satisfaction. "You kidding? It's nothing to me if a squid gets a bad night's sleep. I let 'em squirm."

Will has to laugh, not least because Winter sounds like someone from one of the old Captain America comics when he pulls out that ancient bit of slang. He wonders at the things that get kept alive in secret when their foundations go underground. There's probably a paper in it, not that he'll be the one to write it. How would he ever explain his source?

"Well, you're pretty good at it, anyway. I'll have to tell Dr. Lecter he's got some stiff competition."

Winter rocks on his heels, visibly taken aback. "Huh? Hey, no. I'm not--"

"You're not stepping on anyone's toes," Will assures him warmly, "don't worry. As weird as it is to say this about any psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter's a good man. I don't think he's going to get all territorial if I hear the right things from someone other than him."

Winter's mouth pulls to one side, appeased but confused. "I thought he was a medical doc."

"Oh, he was. He was an ER surgeon before. I don't know what made him change careers--hell, I don't know where he found the time to do the schooling--but I guess he decided he'd rather fix minds instead of bodies."

Winter nods, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. "Minds, huh?"

Will hesitates, even though Hannibal had obliquely made the offer himself. He's a little too aware of how valuable Hannibal's time is, even though his insurance card had been politely but categorically refused the single time he'd tried to offer it. Will already feels like an enormous drain on Hannibal's time…but Hannibal finds Winter fascinating, maybe even likeable, and beneath the well-mannered exterior is a man used to being the strongest anchor in the room. Hannibal wouldn't offer anything he didn't truly wish to do.

"You could talk to him, you know. If there's anything you wanted to talk about. He'd be happy to help."

Winter's slow to respond, his hesitant nod paired with eyes gone distant. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and when he focuses in on Will again, he searches Will's face for a long moment in silence. "Maybe," he says at last. "I'll think about it."

"All right. Just let me know if you want me to ask about setting up an appointment for you. Or maybe we could get him to come out here. He's always finding ridiculous excuses to stop by," Will explains with a fond snort. "I don't know why he even pretends. We both know he's here to visit the dogs."

Winter's eyes soften predictably, but then he stills as a new thought hits him, one that leaves him staring solemnly, face blank.

"You okay?" Will asks, nightmare scenarios of Hydra conditioning dancing belatedly through his head. If he's just soured Winter on the entire concept of Hannibal, he's going to feel like a complete ass.

"Yeah," Winter says automatically, then blinks back to himself with a more believable, "it's nothing. Just--something Abigail said finally caught up to me."

Though he's desperately curious, Will's not going to pry. Abigail's made no secret that she shares Will's enthusiasm for psychiatrists, but she likes Dr. Lecter. Hopefully that's what Winter's remembering. Will's happy to help in any way he can, but he knows his limitations. With both Will and Abigail to vouch for the man, maybe Winter will give Hannibal a chance to do what Will can't.

The question of what they'll do if-- _when_ \--Winter gets better is one he's happy to shelve for another day.

***

Abigail jumps as the phone she's technically not supposed to have vibrates inside the top drawer of her nightstand. Dr. Lecter had given it to her the day after she'd gone over the wall, attempting to pass it off as a burner phone, but there's nothing cheap or disposable about it. Even knowing he'd probably replace it without batting an eye, she still doesn't want to get caught.

Tossing her book to one side, Abigail rolls half over in her bed and rips the drawer open as quietly as she can, cursing under her breath. The first thing she does when she unlocks the screen is go into her settings, wondering how it got set to vibrate in the first place.

The second thing she does is pull up the text she just got, and then she just stares.

_Wait, Graham and Lecter are together?_

_Who is this?_ she types back, though she's pretty sure she knows.

_Winter._

Abigail sits back against the headboard and pulls her knees up, cradling the phone in both hands. This feels like one of those moral dilemmas you read about where you always say you'll know exactly what to do, and of course the right thing to do is not to out anyone, for any reason. Only she's seen first-hand how things go over Winter's head, and she's a little worried what the fallout's going to be like either way.

 _How'd you get this number?_ she stalls, wondering if she should text Will in the meantime.

 _It was on Graham's phone_.

Her brows fly up at the candid response, amused despite herself. _Well, at least you're honest. Why are you asking me, tho?_

_You brought it up._

Gnawing at her lower lip, Abigail stares guiltily at the screen. She had, hadn't she? And now Winter's…what? Alarmed, curious, angry? She hopes not angry. He looks like he could bench press Will without even trying.

_Would it be a problem if they were?_

_Are they going to get the shit beat out of them?_ She barely has time to blink at the question before a new text pops up. _Stuffing. I meant stuffing_.

Shoulders shaking with a laugh she tries furiously to keep silent, Abigail grins to herself as she replies. _Doubt it. There's worse places to live, but Balti's not bad. And y'know, FBI. They're not going to let a hate crime go if it's one of their own._

 _Wait_.

Abigail cocks her head.

_Hate's a crime now?_

"Oh my God," she breathes helplessly, staring at the screen. She's tempted to ask where he's been for the last twenty years, but she's smart enough to be a little bit scared of the answer.

_Nevermind, google. But look. I don't think they are._

Abigail frowns. Okay, so she'd just assumed, but--

 _They're always together. And Will's super-careful to keep everything fair. The visitation thing and…all the paperwork stuff,_ she trails off lamely. She doesn't like to think on it too long, just in case it doesn't pan out, but she's ninety percent positive that when they let her out of this place she'll have two guardians, and neither one will be Dr. Bloom. _And Hannibal's not exactly subtle_.

 _Graham thinks Lecter comes by just to see the dogs_.

 _OH MY GOD_. She types it out this time, unable to contain herself. _What EVEN_. That's just…that goes beyond willful blindness, and that's surprising in a man who can take one look at a crime scene and know what the killer had for lunch. Not that Will is Sherlock Holmes, but she would've thought he was more observant than _this_. Maybe if Hannibal left a heart for Will to--but she's not thinking about that right now. Or ever, if she can help it. It's much easier to pretend she doesn't know a thing if she doesn't know much to begin with.

 _Fraternization?_ Winter asks, like he'd taken her last text as a legitimate question. _Graham said Lecter was freelance. If they brought him in to work…on him? With him?_

Okay, that sounds a little skeevier, but thinking back carefully to past conversations, she feels pretty confident in her response. _Not officially. My doc knows both of them and hooked them up. For work, I mean, but they bonded over the thing with my dad_.

And her, but she can't bring herself to say it, even in a text, in case she jinxes it.

She's nearly eighteen. It's not like she really needs a guardian, much less two, not when they're only going to be around for a couple of months at most. And it's not like she loves her dad any less, even after everything. She's not looking to _replace_ him. She's just taken by the novelty of someone willing to kill to _keep_ her: alive, to watch her grow, even if she changes. Maybe especially if she changes.

Her single, secret wish is for a family untainted by fear, but if she can't have that, she'll take the next best thing.

_Huh. Well, I hear kids are supposed to want their parents to be married. Unless that was a joke?_

The bark of laughter that escapes nearly catches in her throat as she curls in on herself, resting her head on her knees, phone pressed to her belly. It's like talking to an alien anthropologist, one who's got the theory down but still doesn't know all the moves to the wacky native dances. What is she going to do with this guy?

The answer is obvious: teach him how to protect himself.

She smiles a little as the idea takes root. If she ever wanted to prove she's more than what blood and circumstance have made her--more than bait, the dutiful daughter, a scared little girl--maybe it starts with this.

And anyway, it's only fair.

***

It's late, the halls of the Triskelion emptied down to the night staff, but Sitwell's not about to complain about the hour. If Pierce is working, they're all working. He just hopes Pierce isn't in the mood to shoot the messenger.

Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office with his hands linked behind his back, Pierce is the perfect image of the lonely man at the top, unbowed despite the weight of responsibility. Even knowing the careful cultivation that went into that look, Sitwell finds himself feeling obscurely guilty for not bringing better news.

"Have you found him?" Pierce asks without turning. To say Pierce is unhappy with the current situation is an understatement. Rumor has it he'd done a stint as the Soldier's handler years ago, back when the asset had been much less predictable. Aside from losing a valuable weapon, Sitwell wouldn't be surprised if Pierce is taking the Soldier's defection as a personal affront.

"No, sir," Sitwell admits, bracing himself for the interrogation sure to follow. "He's not showing up on surveillance footage anywhere. Wherever he's gone to ground, either he hasn't poked his head out once, or he's been a lot more careful than I would have expected."

"Of course he has," Pierce grumbles, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he turns his back on the city at last. "What about his last mission? Have you found out what triggered the episode?"

"No, sir," Sitwell says again, chagrined. "From what I can tell, the asset took his targets out the same as all the others. No deviation from standard mission protocol. Apparently the FBI's star profiler agrees," he offers, breathing a little easier when Pierce's eyes sharpen with predatory interest. "They called him in on the last one: a Will Graham. Something of a wunderkind, but too unstable for regular field work. I read through his notes, but they weren't much help. 'Deficient sense of self; crime of business, not crime of passion.' Nothing we don't already know."

"But no insight into what made that last mission different."

Sitwell shakes his head. "Whatever set the asset off, it happened sometime after he left the mission site, when he dropped off camera."

Pierce breathes in deeply through his nose and lets it out again on a single, harsh sigh. "So for all we know, he could be halfway to Captain America's front door right now."

Sitwell knows better than to rise to the bait. When Pierce waxes rhetorical, he keeps his mouth shut and waits.

Squaring his shoulders, Pierce nods once. "Keep up the search. I still want the asset brought in alive if possible, but if it looks like he's going to rendezvous with the Avengers, use any means necessary to prevent that from happening."

"Understood," Sitwell says, relived to be given his marching orders and an excuse to make for the door. Working for Pierce is a tightrope walk on the best of days. This situation with the asset qualifies as anything but.

The thing is, he's done some digging in the past couple of weeks, and he knows that the longer the asset remains at large, the less likely it is they'll ever find him. Hydra may have been using him as a battering ram, but the Red Room made him a ghost, and the one thing the Soldier doesn't forget is his training. The real danger is when he starts to remember other things, and the longer he remains out of the chair, the faster those memories are going to snowball.

Pierce still thinks they're dealing with a trigger moment, something unexpected that threw a glitch in the asset's system two weeks ago. Sitwell and one petrified tech are the only ones who know the problem stretches back not two weeks but two months, from the minute the Soldier was defrosted. One jarred connection in the shock halo, supposedly tested but missed through inattention, and the damage was done. Or, more accurately, not done.

He really should report it. It's just that he has more than a few doubts where Pierce's vision of Hydra's future is concerned and where he himself figures in that equation. He knows there's a list, and that when the Insight ships launch, a program's going to run and check targets off that list, one by one. All very neat and tidy. The past predicts the future.

Until he knows whether being a double agent makes him naughty or nice, he's more than happy to let Pierce distract himself with his runaway assassin.

Maybe he'll even thank the Soldier for it later.

***

Shaky from nightmares and weaving on his feet from too many nights of broken sleep, Elliot Buddish mechanically shovels ice into a bucket from the machine outside his cheap motel room, swallowing against the ever-present sting of bile at the back of his throat. He just wants to rest, but the doctors told him he'd have to be a fighter if he wants to beat this thing, and sleep is too much like giving in. He knows Death will close his eyes eventually, but God, please, not just yet. Not when he can't see it coming.

Approaching laughter breaks through his haze, and he clenches his jaw, hand shaking as he grips the cold metal scoop tighter. He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see, but he _has_ to. He has to, and it's just---a happy couple, a happy kid, all three faces innocent and clean. They'd be…they'd be perfect, actually, for what he has in mind: bright souls to intercede for him. Thing is, he may be dying, but he's not an asshole. Why would he take goodness _out_ of the world just because he's not going to be around to experience it?

Ice. He needs more ice. He can pour it out over the bed before he lies down, and _that_ should keep him awake if he can't make it safe to--

More footsteps approach, and this time when he looks up, he _knows_. He can _see_. Not just a few flickering sparks or a warning corona: the faces of the couple strolling down the walkway are wreathed in hellfire, grim as their souls. _These_ people he can elevate without guilt. Save them, give them a better purpose than what animates them now. It's what he's meant to do.

If everything happens for a reason, then he's been given a gift. A _Gift_ , even, and never mind the doctors' babble of chemical changes and dormant genes and adult onset, because if there's no point to any of this--the tumor, his approaching death, this so-called mutation that shows him what others try to hide--then maybe there's _nothing_ on the other side. Maybe when he dies, he just stops. The deepest sleep of all, with no one there to guide him past the dark and into the light.

He knows what they say. God helps those who help themselves.

If God won't send His angels at the end, he's fine with making his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this episode one chapter, but man it's getting long, and I've still got a ways to go. o.O Just going to post this for now, and sorry for the delay...it's been a crap nine months.

When the call comes in early that morning, Will's tempted to roll back over and bury his head under his pillow. The only thing stopping him is some vague notion that Jack might just come and get him if he stalls too long, and the rest of the house is awake now anyway.

"I'm up," he groans at the faintest creak of floorboards, knowing without having to look that Winter is hovering near the stairs, eyeing him with wary concern.

'Up' is something of an understatement. He might have caught whole blocks of sleep in half hour increments, but the rest of the night was a bleary doze broken by restless tossing and the mocking glow of the alarm clock. Every joint aches as he heaves himself upright, dry eyes slow to focus as he gropes for the phone.

"Graham," he mutters, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbing a hand though his hair.

" _I need you on a plane_ ," Jack says without preamble. " _Trenton, New Jersey. I'll meet you at the airport when you land, but be prepared to ride back with the others. I've already got a sub in for your classes_."

"Okay…?" Will says automatically, caught off guard by the level of Jack's urgency if not the fact of it.

" _This might be the one I've been waiting for_." With no further explanation, Jack hangs up, leaving Will to stare at his phone in consternation.

"Work?" asks Winter, unfazed by the abruptness of the summon.

"Yeah. Looks like I'm headed to New Jersey." He's grateful it's just far enough away he won't be expected to drive; with any luck he can snatch another nap on the plane.

Winter nods once and heads into the kitchen. As he's working up the energy to clamber to his feet, Will hears the coffee maker being filled and silently sends up a thank you to whatever god looks out for the sleep deprived. Taking in an amnesiac assassin is turning out to be the smartest decision of his life.

By the time he showers and gets dressed, there's coffee steaming in the pot, toast and a big bowl of oatmeal waiting for him on the counter, and Winter sitting at his kitchen table taking Will's gun apart to clean it. He looks content, the motions so familiar they've gone from rote to soothing, but Will wants to kick himself for not realizing what 'work' would mean to Winter. Will doesn't doubt that being called in early _always_ means shooting if Hydra's involved.

"Thanks for this," he says anyway as he settles down to a better breakfast than he'd anticipated. Winter's expectations might be mired in the past, but his choices at least are being made firmly in the here and now. Will doesn't have to ask to know Winter's former handlers wouldn't have gotten anything like this kind of consideration.

"No problem. If you need more sleep, I could drive you in," Winter offers, tilting his eyes up without lifting his head from his task.

"Thanks, but I'm used to this. And I'll be coming back with the others, so we'll probably be going straight to the lab when we get back in town. Which means you'd have to pick me up from FBI headquarters, or it'll look weird."

Winter hums noncommittally. When Will sneaks a glance, he finds Winter's eyes have gone unfocused, hands still moving with no input from his brain.

"Plotting how to get past the entry guards?"

"Nah, that's easy," Winter says with a shrug, "especially if I'm driving your car. Just wondering how hard it's going to be to fool the cameras without a nano mask."

"A what?" Will asks, spoon frozen halfway to his mouth.

"You know…a whatsit. Photostatic veil?" Winter asks like he expects Will to be able to correct him, passing a hand over his face like a magician about to perform a trick.

Will returns his spoon to the bowl slowly. "Wait. You mean a disguise. Made of nanites."

"Yeah?"

Will scrubs at his face with both hands, sitting back in his chair. "God, am I glad I work for the FBI," he mutters, feeling obscurely guilty all the same. He should be reporting this to somebody, but who? The CIA? Surely they know already--it's got spook tech written all over it--but he can't risk anyone asking how he found out.

"Old-school ops?" Winter asks, with that same ginger grasp on the terminology. He _knows_ slang; he just doesn't seem to have had much opportunity to _use_ slang. He looks much more confident when Will doesn't correct him.

"I guess. I mean, I'm supposed to be lecturing about ops, not participating in them," he reminds them both. "But yeah, the cloak and dagger stuff…well. I suppose if the killers evolve, we will too," Will says, thoughts drawn inexorably to a different kind of spook, the one that always gets away.

There's never been a killer quite like the Chesapeake Ripper, whose sheer sense of theater always seems a little like a slap in the face. _See_? he might as well be saying. _You're so bad at catching me, I can take my time to make them beautiful_. It's insulting to the victims, too. There's no love in it, no magnification of their better qualities in death. They're incidental to the end result, and in more than one case, it's probably better than they--

Will clears his throat, shaking himself out of his musings and reaching determinedly for his coffee cup. The Chesapeake Ripper isn't a _hero_. He's not ridding the world of assholes for the public good. What he does, he does for his own reasons only, and Will won't presume to guess what they are. Maybe if they ever catch the guy--

Oh. Is that why Jack's so desperate to get him to New Jersey?

He blinks out of his thoughts a second time as Winter sets Will's gun down on the table between them and slides it over, the grip facing Will, barrel pointed at the sink.

"Well, if you need in someplace your team can't get you," Winter offers, "give me a call. I'm pretty good at that sort of thing."

Will's pretty sure bringing up search warrants and the legal system will be lost on Winter, so he doesn't try. "Thanks," he says instead. At least Winter's intentions are good.

His hopes of catching a nap on the plane are dashed by a pair of teens who manage to giggle through nearly the entire flight, spelling each other whenever either needs to stop for breath. By the time he spots Jack scanning the crowd, he's near stumbling from exhaustion and wishing he'd gone along with Winter's plan.

Jack barely says hello before herding him to the truck, and there's a kind of relief in knowing he doesn't have to think for a while. Throwing his carry-on in the back, he settles down in the front seat with a sigh, content to let Jack deal with things like traffic and navigation until they reach their destination.

"Got a lot to do here today," Jack warns as they leave the airport behind. "You good to go if you have to stay overnight?"

Will blinks awake at that, thinking with distant disgruntlement that it would've been nice to know that beforehand. He hasn't even brought a change of clothes, just his laptop and a few personal effects. "Yeah," he says distractedly. "I've got a friend watching the dogs. I'll have to give him a call, but we're good."

Jack grunts in acknowledgment, attention still mostly fixed on the road, but Will catches him darting a few looks his way as they drive. He must look like hell if Jack's giving him the side-eye, but they're both adults here. One rough night isn't worth bowing out over.

Will sits up a little straighter when they pull into the parking lot of a motel near the outskirts of town. Convenient to the freeway and backed by a well-kept block of sturdy brick apartments, it's not isolated enough to be the sort of place that discourages questions if there's a ruckus in the night. Whoever died here, either their killer worked very fast, very quiet, or else they were known to the victim, invited in.

Other than the police cars, a coroner's van, and another unmarked SUV like their own, the parking lot is empty but for an aging Taurus being thoroughly searched, the other guests long since cleared out. If this place had been full the night before, there might have been thirty units occupied. Something's not adding up.

"Seems awfully public for a murder," Will says, unclipping his seatbelt.

"It gets better," Jack warns. Somehow Will doesn't think he means that in a good way.

"Room was registered to a John Smith," Jack says as they start heading toward one of the corner units. He snorts, fishing a pair of latex gloves out of the pockets of his overcoat. "Big surprise there."

"An appalling failure of imagination," Will agrees, taking a longer look around. Fresh paint on the doors that speaks of regular maintenance; plenty of lights and no corridors or crevices in which to hide. No signs of forced entry anywhere.

"They paid cash," Jack continues, pulling on his gloves. "There are no security cameras on the premises…another big surprise."

That ought to revise his estimation of the willingness of others to get involved downward, but--no. The place has a mom-and-pop feel to it, too much complacency as dangerous as too little concern.

"John Smith one of the victims?" Will asks as he pulls out his own gloves.

"Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, according to the register."

Two? That is a surprise, as is their placement in Smith's room and not their own. Why move them and risk getting caught? Unless he paid for an extra night to give himself time to escape and forgot to cancel housekeeping…or unless he lured them in.

"They were mutilated and displayed. I thought it might be the Chesapeake Ripper, but there were no surgical trophies taken."

It's no comfort to know he was right about Jack's urgency. The killers who want to show off their work are a volatile bunch, hungry for notice. They can't count on this one to have the Ripper's eerie patience; once he gets a taste of the limelight, he might start courting it.

"I'm gonna need you to prepare yourself on this one," Jack warns as they approach a crowd of officers lurking outside one of the doors.

"I'm prepared." What, is he suddenly a rookie? He knows his job.

"Prepare yourself some more. It's soup in there."

"Soup isn't good for the soul?"

"Not this kind." Jack eyes him consideringly for a long moment until Will glances casually away. He's getting used to the weight of Jack's stares, but he can't say he ever enjoys it. "All right, look. There are no jurisdictional rivalries here. The local police begged us to take this, and I haven't heard one peep out of SHIELD." Leaning in closer, he nudges Will with a shoulder, forcing him to stop. "Where's your head?"

"It's on my pillow. I didn't sleep," he admits, looking down with the excuse of polishing his glasses before tucking them into a pocket.

Jack tightens his mouth but nods, accepting his excuse at face value. "Got just the thing to wake you up," he says, glancing at the open door before them and back to Will.

Taking a deep breath, Will starts forward alone, Jack's footsteps picking up at his back a moment later.

The smell hits him first, metallic but sweet, with a cloying undertone that coats the back of his throat like sticky caramel. It's been cold, but the heater must not have been running; the darker scents of rot and bloat are fainter than they could be. Maybe it's the freshness of the bodies, or maybe Smith hasn't opened them up--

Then he steps into the room and has to alter his parameters for that last thought entirely.

A man and a woman kneel at the foot of a partially-made double bed, their bound hands clasped in an attitude of prayer. It teases at some half-remembered fragments of kitschy old paintings, angels kneeling around a cradle, or maybe a manger. The great slabs of flesh cut free of their backs and folded up and out at the shoulders, combined with their poses, makes the comparison unavoidable.

"Okay," Will says slowly, "I'm awake."

"Hooks were bored into the ceiling," Jack says, pointing up as he steps closer, head tipped back. "Fishing line was used to hold up the bodies and…the 'wings.'"

"At least we know he's a fisherman," Katz says wryly, her face too grim for her tone.

Will looks over in muted surprise, his mind so firmly captured by the tableau before him, he hadn't registered any of the other presences in the room. Now that he's paying attention, he sees the team's all here: Katz jotting down notes on a small lined pad, Price crouched with his dusting kit in front of the dark television, Zeller prowling the room with a camera.

"And-or a Viking," Price chips in, barely looking up from his hunt for fingerprints.

Zeller curls his lip in disgust. "Vikings do this?"

"Vikings used to execute Christians by breaking their ribs, bending them back and draping the lungs over them to resemble wings. They used to call it a blood eagle."

Will frowns. "Pagans mocking the God-fearing?" Maybe that was true of the Vikings, but that doesn't match the weird… _hominess_ of this little scene.

"Then who's mocking who?" Jack asks at his back.

"No, he isn't mocking them," Will says with a quick shake of his head. "He's transforming them."

"I don't know if it was a good night's sleep," Katz says, approaching the bed, "but he slept here. Hair on the pillow and the sheets are still damp. He's a sweater."

Will can sympathize--God, can he ever--and he braces himself for that extra bit of shared experience to bring him that much closer to the killer's mind. He just…can't quite get there, like there's something he's still missing.

He covers it well, but his stomach hitches when he notices Katz bending over the little table beside the bed, poking her gloved finger into a mess of congealed bile. "He threw up on the nightstand," she says after a guarded sniff.

"Couldn't stomach what he did," Jack muses. "Flop sweat and nervous indigestion."

The sheer _wrongness_ of that statement grates on Will, echoes of a foreign outrage lending sharpness to his tone. "Not nervous. Righteous," he murmurs, forgetting Jack's presumption as he edges closer to the bed at last. "He thinks he's…elevating them somehow." He's close; he knows it. He just can't see it from where he's standing.

He clenches and unclenches a fist, fingers jerking nervously as he takes a deep breath. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to risk reliving this the next time he puts his own head down. He also knows he's not going to make the connection any other way.

"I need a plastic sheet for the bed," he grits out around a lump in his throat. Maybe it's the exhaustion that's making this so much worse than usual, because he really wishes, just this once, that someone would try to stop him.

They don't even question. They just bring him the sheeting and clear the room.

The killer lays him down to sleep.

***

Though he knows the plastic did its job, Will's skin still crawls an hour later, as if a thin film of contagion had soaked through the mattress and into his pores. There's something off about this one, but he doesn't know enough yet to pinpoint what. Why angels? Why now? He's fairly certain that if their guy had killed before, they'd be able to pick his work out of a crowd, so what was the tipping point that made him crave that sort of safeguard over his sleep? At least there's nothing sexual about this one; the victims' nakedness was due to necessity, not desire. At least he's not carrying _that_ back with him.

There's not much he can do until they get the bodies back to the lab, so he settles for staying out of the others' way. He'd offer to help, but there's a weird, one-sided rivalry between him and Jack's crack forensics team that Will's inclined to blame mostly on Zeller. He's had his shot at the crime scene; now it's their turn.

He looks around for Jack, but seeing no sign of him or his vehicle, Will goes to claim a spot in the back of the science truck, diagonal from the driver's seat. With any luck Zeller will call shotgun and Will won't have to deal with him at all.

Luckily he moved his laptop bag over not long after they arrived. He briefly considers digging it out of the chaos in the back; he's got grading he could be doing, even if he's off the hook for classes for the next couple of days. His grainy eyes just about scream at the idea of staring at a screen, however, and he guiltily decides to give himself a pass. He needs to call Winter before he crashes anyway.

He's just dragging his phone out of his pocket when Katz shows up, opening the driver's side door and reaching over to jam the keys in the ignition with a friendly smile. "In case you get bored," she says, nodding at the radio, "or cold. You okay?" she asks before he can muster up a thank you. "You look beat."

"Couldn't sleep," Will says with a shrug, dropping his phone to rest on his thigh, screen down. It's a stupid, pointless tell, but Katz seems more interested in the bags under his eyes than in his contact list. "Just one of those nights."

She nods, grin turning rueful. "I'd say you can sleep on the way back, but you know how those two are."

Will blows out sigh. Zeller on his own is prickly, while Price is a bottomless well of bizarre factoids and enthusiasm, but get them together and it rapidly descends to trivia night in hell. "Right. Jack already left?" Not that there's any salvation to be had there, but Jack at least can shut them all up.

"'Fraid so. Hot date tonight with his wife and Doctor Lecter. If Lecter's food is everything I hear, I don't blame him. That who you're calling?" she asks, nodding at his phone. He should've known she wouldn't miss a thing.

"Just a friend. He's watching my dogs, so I need to let him know I won't be back tonight."

Her brows shoot up, eyes widening in overdone surprise. "You have friends we haven't met?"

"Had to happen sometime," he fires right back. Her answering laugh before she leaves is proud.

Alone once more, he dials the burner phone he left for Winter. It's picked up on the second ring.

" _Where am I headed_?" Winter asks immediately, worse than Jack but with better cause.

"Nowhere," Will jumps to reassure him. "Everything's fine. Just wanted to let you know I'm not going to be back until tomorrow. Unlike the bad guys, we can't just load a body into the trunk and start driving."

Winter quickly stifles a quiet snort, as if he thinks Will's told a--all right, yes, it was a joke, but he's not used to anyone actually laughing. Hannibal's usually the only one who appreciates his caustic sense of humor. " _All right. I'll keep an eye on the dogs. I just feed them out of the bag under the sink, right_?"

Will starts a little at the unexpected question; Winter has to have noticed by now that there is no bag under the sink. He knows what Winter's doing, and it bothers him--a lot--that Winter's first instinct is to make sure Will isn't speaking under duress. All the same there's a strange, slightly surreal comfort in knowing that someone intimately aware of the stakes is dedicating that expertise to looking out for him.

"No, that's okay. Just heat the pot in the fridge for them. It'll be fine," he says with particular emphasis, trying to cage a smile.

" _Got it. Then, uh...I'll see you when I see you_?"

"You bet," Will says, wondering if there's a television in his future after all. If nothing else, it'd help Winter with his slang. Then again, there's always YouTube.

The usual grim line of his mouth is still soft as he tucks away his phone, but his fading smile falls away as soon as he notices it, self-consciousness setting in. Someone's going to get the wrong idea and start asking too many questions about his personal life, which isn't something he welcomes on the best of days. He has too many dogs not to come off as desperate and lonely, and that just opens the door to people trying to _save_ him.

Sighing pensively, he runs a distracted hand through his hair and stops, realizing abruptly that the shuddery feeling he'd been fighting before has completely vanished. He'd like to chalk it up to Katz' timely intervention, but he'd been jittery even in her presence, wishing she'd leave so he could--

So he could focus on his biggest source of pride: his little pack of rescues, both two- and four-legged, the one thing he can point to in his life where he's been nothing but a force for the positive. As much benefit as Winter's been getting from the dogs, Will is no different, and he misses being able to immerse himself in their simple affections for days at a stretch. It used to keep him on an even keel, but now there's just so _much_ piling up on the job and in his head, and every week he seems to spend less and less time at home. Already the days when his dogs were his biggest responsibility seem far-distant, but a little voice reminds him that with one little word-- _no_ \--he could have that peace of mind again.

It comes as no surprise that that voice sounds remarkably like Doctor Lecter.

***

"Thanks again for the invitation," Jack says as he shrugs into his overcoat, his usual energy dimmed by a combination of a full belly, the lateness of the hour, and the very fine vintage Hannibal served with dinner. The case he was called in on that morning may be contributing to his tiredness as well, but Hannibal hasn't asked. Jack has a regrettable propensity for work talk at the table, and though Hannibal would like to enquire after Will, he knows exactly where that question will lead. "Your reputation doesn't do your table justice."

Already bundled up for the short walk to the car, Jack's wife inclines her head in gracious agreement. The lines of tension around Bella's mouth haven't softened since the revelation of just how refined Hannibal's sense of smell truly is, but her tone is even as she adds her compliments to Jack's. "Yes, thank you for the lovely evening. You're a man of many talents, Doctor."

Now that he's aware of it, the polite distance between them does nothing to mask the scent of her sickness, the sharp tang of a body catastrophically out of tune ironically complemented by the faint ozone notes of her perfume. Hannibal wonders which form her cancer has taken, why she hasn't informed Jack. He can think of many reasons for the latter, not least the fact that if he can smell it on her this strongly, her condition must have progressed by now to a very late stage indeed.

"It was wonderful to have you both," he replies, his amusement at hosting the FBI at his table passing for affable good cheer with his guests. Briefly he imagines a future where the scales are pried from Crawford's eyes, but he sets that impulse aside. The private knowledge that Jack spent the evening sitting above every proof he's ever sought will have to be sufficient. "And it was a very great pleasure to meet you, Bella. I do hope you won't be a stranger."

In all honesty, he'd almost rather have Bella's company for an evening than Jack's. He hadn't been sure what to expect of Jack's better half, but he'd been pleasantly surprised to find Bella a clever, controlled woman of firm convictions and charming wit. The well-hidden panic of having her secret discovered has long since faded from her eyes, and she meets his with a measuring thoughtfulness not reflected in her smile. "With an invitation like that, how could I refuse?"

He knows then that he'll be seeing her again. If nothing else, she'll want to pin down with a certainty exactly what he intends to tell her husband.

Once his guests are gone, Hannibal returns to the kitchen, bringing the last of their empty dishes with him. There's not much left to clear away. He's learned over the years to clean as he goes, and except for his faux pas with the foie gras--less a misstep than a question, with answers he tucks away for further thought--his menu was a complete success.

As he finishes rinsing their plates and begins to fill the sink to wash them properly, he smiles abruptly, savoring the memory of Jack's failed attempt at admonishing his wife for her refusal of the opening course. Far from being cowed by Jack's forceful personality, Bella had stood her ground, refusing to apologize to either her husband or her host. It isn't hard to see how the two fit together: Bella sure and strong, yet simultaneously the one soft thing Jack allows in his life, all the more precious for it.

And Bella now: has her secret made her reserved? Distant? Does Jack suspect--but of course he must suspect something. Jack is driven, not unobservant, though his easy acceptance of Hannibal leaves Hannibal tempted to question. It must consume Jack's every spare thought. Has she found someone else? Is it resentment over some promise he's forgotten or some need he's failed to meet? Perhaps something as simple and trite as falling out of love. It must weigh on him, every waking moment, and while he's always respectful in Hannibal's presence, that stress must have bled over into every one of Jack's other relationships.

Hannibal may not have Will's gift, but he knows the urge to take refuge in control when all other certainties begin to dissolve. Jack doesn't seem like the sort of man to take uncertainty well; likely everyone in his sphere of influence has felt his heavy-handed attempts at regaining a sense of mastery over his situation.

His mouth tightens as he scrubs at a stubborn spot of sauce, imagining Jack pushing harder and harder for results, arrests, chasing after the validation of success and dragging Will along in his wake. It's a bad habit Jack has, of collecting brilliance then squandering it recklessly. Will's mind may be a miracle of adaptation, but such mental flexibility takes a toll. Will is a sponge, but once he's soaked up enough of these killers he's choosing to let in--what happens when the sponge is full?

Hannibal doesn't notice his own faint frown until it deepens, and then he smooths it away.

A patient man, one who was paying attention, could reach out to Will then. With just the right pressure, he could watch all the violence and horror Will has absorbed come flooding out. It would be interesting to see whether afterwards, wrung dry of outside influence, the man himself would retain his--

 _The one thing I cannot fathom_ \--

Hannibal stills, fingers tightening around the plate he holds under the tap, his contemplative smile freezing along with his hands.

 _They emptied him out and didn't even bother filling him up again_ \--

He could do it, of course. Hollow Will out the way Hydra had Winter. When he'd still believed Jack to be his main opponent in their one-sided battle of wits, it would have been easy. Now he finds the idea distasteful. He enjoys his little games: whispering, influencing, opening a window when life closes a door. What others do with his suggestions is as individual as the patterns of rain on glass, interesting precisely because it's their choice. What _Will_ will do--that sparks his curiosity more than anything has in years. But how is he to know how much of that reaction is Will if Will doesn't know himself?

Absently setting the plate aside to dry, Hannibal braces his hands on the edge of the sink, frowning at nothing. Doesn't he want that? It would make everything so much easier, and if Will breaks, isn't it proof that he's not that interesting after all? That all along Hannibal's only been seeing what he wants to see. And what he wants to see....

\-- _Will's hands covered in blood, the snapping energy of his righteous rage, all action and emotion. Hannibal's opposite entirely, his perfect foil and_ \--

Hannibal takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

When did he start thinking Will might be capable of becoming his equal?

***

The soldier's gotten used to being left to his own devices while Graham's away at work, but it's still strange to be left in charge of a whole nightly ritual he's observed but never orchestrated. He knows what to do: let the dogs out to burn off energy, heat up the food in the big pot in the fridge until it's warm but not hot. Make food for himself, because Graham's a stickler about what constitutes food for _people_.

He's still not used to being lumped into that category, and he doesn't want to mess it up.

The dogs know something's up. They keep going to the windows, jumping up onto the chairs in the smaller dogs' cases to peer outside, ears perked for the sound of tires. The soldier doesn't blame them. He doesn't like sitting around idle, not when he knows he'd be more use at Graham's back. They just need somebody tracked, right? And Graham's used to doing it with his head, but the soldier's way is faster. If it weren't for Hydra--

The soldier sighs. Wishing Hydra were out of the picture is about as useful as wishing he could fly. That doesn't mean he has to like it. Crawford's a shit handler, the sort of ladder-climber that leaves a trail of burn-outs in his wake, and the soldier doesn't trust the rest of Graham's team to look out for each other. That's how it goes: you keep your head down and your mouth shut, and maybe you don't become the next target. The soldier gets it, usually doesn't give a shit, but--

_"Have we somehow given you the impression these are children?" Madame enquires politely, head tipped back to regard the soldier without fear._

_"No, Madame," he says, because the girls here are kids, but they sure as hell don't act like it with their grim faces and their silences. The way they watch him like they're expecting an attack, even off the practice mats, makes his chest ache._

_"Then I expect you to follow the instructors' orders without holding back. They don't need you coddling them."_

_"Understood," the soldier says. He knows now exactly who complained, but he keeps his reluctance to answer under_ \--

Buster whines, standing up on his back legs with his front paws braced on the soldier's thigh. He looks like he's about to bark, so the soldier crouches down and scratches behind his ears. Of course the crazy mutt takes it as an invitation, licking the soldier's chin as he tries to turn his face away.

"You're hopeless," the soldier grumbles, trying not to smile.

The other dogs abandon the windows to investigate, tails wagging as they sniff him over and collect their own share of petting. Winston's the only holdout, sitting down just out of reach and eyeing him reproachfully. The soldier grimaces.

"Don't look at me. He told me to stay."

Winston huffs a near-silent bark, unimpressed.

Yeah, well. It's not like he _tries_ to be insubordinate. When it comes to the mission, he's golden. He does what he's told, and if what he's told is sometimes completely moronic, that's life. _Somebody's_ going to end up with their ass in a sling, and he'd rather it not be him. He just goes along, makes sure the job gets done, and tries not to be at ground zero for the fallout. He already knows he'll outlast whatever stupidity his handlers get up to. It's usually not worth it to kick up a fuss.

It's just that sometimes, when the bullets aren't flying and there's no mission to fail, when he has too much time to think or he's asked for shit he knows damn well would never be authorized, _sometimes_ \--

 _They call Petrov the dance instructor, but they call_ him _the soldier, maybe because he's so good at following orders. Petrov likes to stalk around the salle barking instructions, punctuating his steps with sharp taps of a thin, flexible cane on the hardwood floors. All the girls dread his invitations to come demonstrate what they've learned on the center mat, inexperienced and unarmed against a trained operative with a whipping stick. Petrov says he's toughening them up. The soldier thinks he's just a bully._

_When he needs both hands to correct the girls' stances, Petrov likes to hand his cane off to the soldier, like the soldier's some kind of glorified umbrella stand. The soldier's never called upon to use it. The soldier is a training dummy that can give useful feedback._

_The soldier turns Madame's orders over in his head, examining every angle, and while Petrov is distracted, he carefully applies just the right amount of pressure with his left thumb to drive a long crack down the length of the cane without splintering it entirely._

_On the practice mats, Irina coughs loudly to cover the sound, huge eyes fixed on him in mute disbelief._

_Petrov takes back his cane and calls on Yelena to come show off what she's learned with a hard smile._

_Later, while the janitors are cleaning up the blood, the soldier stands alongside the girls, looking straight ahead without fidgeting. Madame stalks up and down the line, already furious from learning the cameras in the salle have been down for a while: an open secret even the soldier knows. "'Training accident?'" she asks Anna with a scowl, quoting the same bull all the other girls have fed her._

_"Yes, Madame," Anna says with a quiver in her voice. Madame's eyes sharpen._

_"But?"_

_"I…thought the instructor would be quicker. We all did."_

_Madame clenches her jaw and turns to the soldier. The girls all hold their breaths; he's the last one to be questioned. "And why did you not step in?"_

_"Orders, Madame," the soldier says without hesitation. "I was to stand ready and not coddle anyone."_

_Madame draws in a sharp breath through her nose and lets it out slow. She's beyond angry, but what's she going to do? Petrov was a valuable resource, so someone's going to have to pay. Better him than Yelena, who's barely holding her fierce satisfaction in check. He can take it. If they wipe him after, he won't even remember._

_"Then I hope you don't mind filling in until we find a new instructor," Madame grits out._

_The soldier doesn't smile, though surprise nearly trips him up. He's pretty sure this is supposed to be a punishment, something meant to put them all on opposite sides, but maybe now he can finally teach them_ \--

\--something wet swipes his wrist, and he blinks to find himself sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the front room, Buster curled up in his lap and the rest of the pack flopped down around him. It's gotten dark outside, but the soldier hasn't turned the lights on. There's not supposed to be anyone in here but the dogs, and he doesn't need much light to see anyway.

He really ought to be out there. The rest of Graham's team are too breakable to give him the cover he needs. Graham's sleep is already suffering, and that's a pretty reliable form of torture for a reason. Someone's going to push too hard--on accident? On purpose? His money's on purpose--and Graham's either going to buckle or snap. Which one will probably hinge on how much sleep he hasn't had at the time.

The soldier's mouth tightens, not happy with either result. Break, and they get to put you back together their way. Snap, and you've got to pay up. Either one leaves you wrong-footed, that much easier to push around. Graham needs someone who can draw fire, but thanks to Hydra, it can't be him. Lecter's got an in, but he has to be careful too. At least for now, Graham's on his own, and he doesn't even seem to realize he needs to watch his back.

And now the dogs are _looking_ at him, like a pack of urchins who already know the lesson plan but are hoping he'll skip right to the neck-snapping and eye-gouging first.

"Aw, c'mon. I already broke the rules once. If I do it again, it's gonna be the--"

\-- _chair_ , experience suggests, but _rolled-up newspaper_ is what his mind insists upon, and the idea of being menaced by newsprint is so bizarre, his mouth snaps shut in confusion.

Funny thing is, he can't picture Graham whapping him with the paper, either. He'd just get all _disappointed_ , and that's--

\-- _bad, that's so fucking bad, those sad blue eyes fixed on him and Christ, he'd do anything to make it right_ \--

He shudders, breathing way too fast, one arm wrapped around Buster as the little dog licks at his chin. Harley's enormous orange head weighs down his other thigh as Winston whines, ears pricked. That...that was weird, because he's sure he's never upset Graham that badly. He doesn't give a fuck about his handlers or the controllers, and his girls never had any expectations to begin with, so _what the hell was that_?

There was a name, though, and a hole where that name had been. A face, somewhere just out of reach. They could've had blue eyes; lots of people do.

He's not sure what that broken flash of memory has to do with Graham, if anything; it could just be his messed-up brain telling him not to screw up this time. Not that he needs more encouragement to take this seriously. Graham's on the outskirts of things now from what he can tell, but the recruitment talk is coming, and the soldier can just about taste the line they're going to feed him. _You'll be saving lives, Graham_ \--that's where _he'd_ start. Only once they've got him, it's going to be a whole 'nother story.

 _I know it looks bad, but you're doing good work. People will die if you walk away--you want that on your conscience_?

The soldier sighs. Graham definitely has potential if Lecter's taken an interest, but if he lets himself get sucked into a cause, they're going to chew him up and spit him out, because he's just idealistic enough to let them. If Lecter helps Graham get his head on straight, maybe he's got a chance. Otherwise….

He knows damn well the FBI's not going to turn Graham loose, not without a fight, but hell. Graham got him free of Hydra. Maybe he can find a way to return the favor.

***

Even under the unforgiving white lights of the autopsy lab, the bodies are easier to look at. They always are. Extracted from the scene, they're no longer signposts into a killer's mind. That doesn't mean Will's job is over.

"So let's back it up," he says, forcing himself not to stuff his gloved hands into his pockets, even though he hasn't touched anything yet. It's a bad habit to get into, plain and simple. "You found a soda bottle--"

"Three," Price corrects him, consulting his notes. "Two of them doctored. No free guesses on who got the third."

"Laced with vecuronium. Isn't that part of the cocktail for a lethal injection?" Is their suspect involved with the prison system, or--?

"It's also used in surgical procedures: with intubation and so on," Zeller's quick to point out, on his A-game after flubbing the pop culture round of Lab Jeopardy earlier. "You won't find it at the pharmacy, but it's not that hard to get if you've got access to hospital-grade drugs in the first place."

Katz hums thoughtfully without looking up from her examination of Mr. Anderson. "And if our guy has a tumor--"

"He's definitely got a brain tumor," Zeller insists, defending his theory.

"--then that gives him a reason to be hanging around hospitals. Add in luck and poor security…."

Will nods absently, still trying to fit it all together. The Angel Maker is scared--scared of dying and what comes after--would rather incapacitate his victims than force a physical confrontation, but he's strong enough to manhandle two bodies into poses that wouldn't have been easy to work with. "If he lured them into his room, he must be very convincing."

"Or hot," Katz throws out with a wicked smirk.

Price arches a brow. "You think the Andersons were looking to spice up their marriage?"

Katz shrugs. "I had a roommate in college who hooked up with a guy on a Greyhound bus. Literally in the back of a moving Greyhound bus. At least the motel is stationary."

Zeller picks his jaw up after a moment but still looks mildly horrified. "Well, now that I'm never going Greyhound again…."

It's a possible angle--luring in sinners and turning them into saints--but Will can't say for sure. The pathology of the mind he understands, but the body? This isn't someone with a tragic backstory or a few crossed wires. He's not out for revenge or to prove his superiority or doing what the voices tell him to. There's just something growing inside him where nothing should be, and everything that's gone wrong since is as organic as an eager speck of mildew that's found somewhere hospitable to spread.

He needs a sounding board, someone who understands both the body and the mind.

No free guesses, as Price would say, as to who Will's going to turn to.

Much as he'd like to head over to Hannibal's office immediately, he can't just disrupt the man's life on a whim. Hannibal has his practice to worry about, patients--official ones--counting on him. Will's got his own work to catch up on as well, and Jack's whims aren't doing his students any favors. He'll just work an hour or so on his lecture notes, he tells himself as he's hiding out in his office behind a closed door. He'll call Hannibal, leave a message asking him to give a time that's convenient to meet, and then he'll go home and--

" _Will_ ," Hannibal greets him on the second ring. He sounds pleasantly surprised, with a touch of concern that makes Will want to lead with assurances, like a kid swearing his innocence before he's even accused. " _It's good to hear from you_."

"Ah--thanks," Will says, floundering a little. He hadn't expected to get Lecter on the line in the first place, but the warmth of his greeting leaves Will feeling vaguely embarrassed that he's calling for professional reasons. "Wait, I thought you'd be in session right now," he says, frowning at the clock. It's still five to eleven; he hadn't wanted to bother Hannibal on his lunch hour with work, and though he can't imagine Hannibal interrupting an appointment to take a personal call, he might if he thought it was an emergency.

" _You're my last visitor of the day_ ," Hannibal reminds him, amused and…pleased? " _Ordinarily I reserve time between patients to settle my notes, but it's no trouble if our conversations run long. I appreciate the consideration regardless. Now, what can I do for you_?"

"Did Jack mention the case we were called in on yesterday?" Will asks, shelving the realization that he's claiming more than his fair share of Hannibal's office time in favor of wondering if he's bothering the man for nothing. If Jack already picked Hannibal's brain--

" _Not in any great detail. I prefer not to talk shop over the dinner table, and Jack can be a hard man to steer conversationally_."

Will snorts, caging a grin. "I bet. Listen, would you be up for discussing the particulars? I could really use someone with a medical insight as well as the psychological, if it wouldn't be an imposition."

" _Not at all. I'm afraid I have appointments through the day…would you be available at our usual time_?"

"That works great, actually," Will says, sinking back into his office chair in relief. "Gives me time to go home first and see how everybody's doing." If he's lucky, he may even be able to catch a few hours' sleep before he has to turn around and make the trip to Baltimore. "Thanks for giving up part of your evening, Doctor. I really appreciate it."

" _It's my pleasure_ ," Hannibal assures him. " _And Will_?"

"Yes?"

" _Get some sleep_."

Will laughs as he disconnects the call, that same troublesome grin tugging at his mouth. It's just…nice. Being known. Even if the people who know him best are nothing but a flock of mother hens.

He's feeling pretty good about the rest of the day until someone raps twice on his door, Jack sticking his head in without waiting for an invitation.

"I need you to look through witness reports," Jack tells him, and what's he going to say? These are still his normal working hours, and it's no one's fault but his own that he didn't manage to sleep the night before this all started.

"Got it," he says, closing his laptop with a sigh. He wasn't getting that much done anyway.

He naps through his own lunch hour and wakes groggier than before, but the motel really had been full the night the Andersons were murdered, and he's got a stack of files to review. He remembers to call Winter and check in, but after that his day begins to blur. Someone's already gone through a checklist of questions with all the visitors they've been able to reach, but it's mostly people trying too hard to be helpful, tempted by circumstance to ascribe new weight and importance to random observations. None of it tells him what he needs to know.

By the time he makes it to Hannibal's office, he's running on fumes despite stopping for coffee on the way. Sitting in the car in the gathering gloom, he pops a few aspirin and swallows them dry, wondering if Hannibal would think it rude if he took a nap out here once they're done. With his luck, his wakeup call would be a cop knocking on the window; in this area of town, someone sleeping in their car gets called in, not ignored.

Just a few more hours. One with Hannibal, one to drive home. He'll play with the dogs, reassure Winter, and then he can _sleep_. Preferably without angels dancing behind his eyelids, but at this point, he'll take anything.

The sun has only just gone down, but it feels ten degrees colder as Will clambers stiffly out of the car, ducking back in at the last moment when he remembers his coffee. Half a block down, the pale brick of Hannibal's office seems to glow, though most of the windows are dark. He still doesn't know what Hannibal needs with that much space: two stories and a converted attic level, when as far as he knows, Hannibal doesn't share the building with anyone. Will's only seen the waiting room and the office. Maybe one day he'll ask for the grand tour.

Hunching his shoulders around his ears, he stretches his legs as much as he can without breaking into a jog. His tired joints complain as he climbs the six stairs to the columned entrance, letting himself in with the ginger care he usually reserves for libraries. As quiet as the building is--and with as many books as Hannibal keeps socked away inside--the comparison is unavoidable.

He's only just gotten the front door closed when Hannibal opens his office door with a small but genuine smile. "Will. Please come in," he says, stepping back half a pace and sweeping an arm out in invitation.

It's the sincerity that gets him. Despite the advancing hour and a full day of dealing with other people's problems, Hannibal is still pleased to see him, even though Will has a habit of tracking blood in with him. He knows Hannibal isn't squeamish, but there's a world of difference between the sterile operating theaters Hannibal is used to and the mangled things Will brings him, like there's a difference between a roster of neurotic executives and the killers that are Will's stock in trade. It's interesting for now, but interesting only lasts until exhaustion sets in.

Will knows a little about that himself, from both sides of the equation.

***

Hannibal listens thoughtfully as Will shares what he knows about the newest killer he's been sent to track, starting with the intriguing scene in the motel room and ending with the disappointing revelation that that the artist's creativity likely owes as much to illness as inspiration. It's no surprise to find his interest in the hunted waning in favor of the hunter, but today he finds his own motives suspect.

"So we're pretty certain of the brain tumor," Will sums up. Only his eyes follow as Hannibal climbs to the second level of his office library, Will's usual restless pacing curtailed by exhaustion. Hannibal has yet to prize a straight answer out of him regarding when he last slept, which in a way is answer enough. "What we don't know is how advanced it is--whether he's scared because it's inoperable, or whether he's just scared. I'd almost say he was bargaining with God, but…making his own angels? That seems like a pretty potent _lack_ of faith, don't you think?"

"God helps those who help themselves," Hannibal replies without looking over his shoulder. Will snorts a laugh, even without Hannibal's smile to prompt him.

"That's certainly one way of looking at it. Maybe literally?" Will muses, frown audible in his voice. "A way of proving he's worthy. Or…I don't know. Angels aside, that room didn't feel like a prayer. I'd say it had more in common with a Precious Moments print than standard iconography."

Before entering the field of psychiatric medicine, death was something to avoid, bestow, or fight against, depending on his situation and mood. He's since had to delve quite deeply into the perception of it, be it that of survivors or those soon to make death's acquaintance, and his library has expanded accordingly.

Finding the volume he seeks, he turns back to the railing and holds it out, waiting for Will to gather himself for the catch before dropping it into his hands.

"There is no one and only spiritual center of the brain," Hannibal says, watching as Will opens the book in the middle as if hoping the answer he seeks will leap off the page, fully-formed. "Any idea of God comes from many different areas of the mind working together in unison."

Will glances up briefly, his shoulders and the quirk of his brows sketching out his willingness to cede the point. What he thinks of pop culture replacing the classic trappings of faith he keeps to himself.

"Maybe I was wrong. How do you profile someone who has an anomaly in their head changing the way they think?"

It's tempting to point out that one doesn't. Such a man will by nature be unpredictable and erratic; if he's caught at all, it will likely be entirely by accident. That, however, isn't advice that will encourage Will to return.

Choosing a book of his own at random, he props it open before him on the balcony rail, pretending not to notice as the crisp flick of pages turning draws Will's attention. Satisfaction curls through him as Will's shoulders sag another fraction, put further at ease without the weight of another's eyes upon him.

"A tumor can definitely affect brain function," Hannibal says as he turns another page, "even cause vivid hallucinations. However, what appears to be driving your Angel Maker to create heaven on Earth is a simple issue of mortality."

"Can't beat God, become him?"

It's a curious observation, leaping past the obvious motive to land deep in the realm of speculation, except to Will, there's no speculation involved. He sees where others only theorize or guess, moving forward with confidence when he isn't called upon to defend what he knows. Hannibal would like nothing better than to let him continue, but like a teacher insisting their students show their work, he nudges Will gently back to the beginning.

"You said he was afraid."

"He feels…abandoned," Will says without lifting his head, eyes sliding from the book he cradles but rising no further than the floor.

It requires no imagination to see how that resonates with Will. It's writ large in the angle of Will's bowed head, the subtle twist of his body away from Hannibal. He doubts Will considers himself to be alone: he has his dogs, and now he has Winter, and none of the creatures he surrounds himself with would ever choose to leave him. They aren't capable of it. And of those who are capable, those who remain form a very short list.

Alana, who protects him the way she would a child, who'd coddle him into submission then grow exasperated with what she made. Jack, for whom Will's usefulness will always trump his wellbeing, who would break him, but not in any useful way. Between them, with their extremes of caution and caring, they've all but giftwrapped Will for anyone with eyes to come along and take, not seeing the value of what they're prepared to give away.

It wouldn't be the first time Hannibal has liberated a masterpiece from those unable to appreciate it. The only disquieting thing is how invested he finds himself in the outcome.

"Ever feel abandoned, Will?" he asks, realizing he's been silent too long.

Will's tired laugh has sharp edges, all of them turned inward. "Abandonment requires expectation," Will counters, looking up at him with a rueful smirk. He shakes his head a little as he turns away again, almost amused, as if Hannibal had asked him when he next expected to walk on water.

"What were your expectations of Jack Crawford and the FBI?" Hannibal asks as he closes the volume he's been pretending to read, curious though he knows he's pressing on a bruise.

Will snaps his own book closed, but he's careful as he sets it down on Hannibal's desk, respectful even in his anger. The anger itself is held firmly in check. "Jack hasn't _abandoned_ me."

"Not in any discernible way. Perhaps in the way gods abandon their creations." He's careful to remove all censure from his voice, delivering up his observations as truths rather than accusations. For someone who views human loyalty as something alien to his experience, Will is remarkably skilled in it himself. "You say he hasn't abandoned you, but at the same time you find yourself wandering from your bed in the middle of the night."

Will blinks on a slight recoil, startled into looking up to meet Hannibal's eyes. "Well," he mutters with another quiet laugh, "this should be interesting. Please, Doctor, proceed," he invites, sighing out the deep breath he takes to brace himself.

There's naked resistance in his stare, and Hannibal finds it fascinating. Though his restless avoidance tempts others into thinking him weak, there's a solid core of strength in Will only waiting for a confrontation to coax it out.

"Jack gave you his word he would protect your headspace, yet he leaves you to your mental devices."

Will's face crumples into a frown, but not quite the one Hannibal expects. "Are you trying to _alienate_ me from Jack Crawford?" Will asks, incredulous.

Hannibal tips his chin down and shoots him a pointed look, chiding him silently for jumping to conclusions. Worried as Will has been about letting the paranoia of dealing with a real conspiracy bleed over into the rest of his life, embarrassment quickly drowns suspicion. "I'm trying to help you to understand this Angel Maker you seek."

"Well, help me to understand how to catch him," Will grumbles, turning half away again to perch on the edge of Hannibal's desk. There's still resentment in his tone, but it's the resentment of someone being told what he knows and doesn't want to hear. Like it or not, he'll be stewing over Hannibal's words for weeks to come.

Turning away to ease the pressure Will must be feeling, Hannibal deposits his book back on the shelf as he muses aloud. "If he were a classic paranoid schizophrenic, you might be able to influence him to become visible."

"What, scare him out into the daylight?"

"Might even get him to hurt himself, if he hasn't already."

Will shakes his head, either blind to the ethical ramifications of Hannibal's suggestion or so in tune with the killer he claims he can't predict that he dismisses the idea out of hand. "If he were self-destructive, he wouldn't be so careful."

"Unless he's careful about being self-destructive." That catches Will's attention, his head swinging back around though his eyes dart up and away without settling. "Making angels to pray over him as he sleeps. Who prays over us when we sleep?"

It's no real surprise that Winter comes instantly to mind, though most would argue an assassin makes a questionable guardian angel. Will's terrified Angel Maker would likely be the exception. It's obvious to Hannibal what the man is doing: covering his bases in the face of godly neglect. Whether he believes in God is a moot point; he believes in intervention, but this time his angel has failed him. Whether he's auditioning for a new one or trying to jump start the process is Will's to determine. A look at the National Cancer Database would likely tell him more than Hannibal could.

As for his victims, Hannibal's more interested in the potential for Will to create his own…but there's that notion of a watchful guardian again, with Winter waiting in the wings. If Will were to reach his tipping point, who would he go to when the damage was done? Uncle Jack? Hannibal? Or faithful Winter, who'd ask no questions--and, after the first time, wouldn't wait to be asked.

Still perched on the edge of Hannibal's desk, Will sighs heavily and tips back the last of his coffee. He's right on the edge of exhaustion but refusing to admit it; if he lets himself go long enough, apathy may well turn to aggression, and from there….

Winter could make everything easy, let Will explore and experiment without fear of consequences, but Hannibal doesn't want Will to turn to Winter.

He would rather Will turned to him.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks, hoping Will will reward his bluntness with the truth.

Startled, Will opens his mouth to reply.

His phone rings before he can speak.

***

New Jersey to Ohio's not that bad of a drive; Elliot drove longer routes than that every day for years. It's different, though, now that he's not driving for work. He stops more, tries to really _see_ what he'll be leaving behind. He's had all his life to appreciate it, but only now is it really sinking in.

He tries to avoid people when he can, stopping at empty rest areas and filling up his tank in sleepy nowhere towns. It's a little bit terrifying, how much darkness there is in the world, so much of it hidden in plain sight. No one ran screaming from that couple back at the motel, but they should have. _He_ would have, back when he was still second-guessing himself, mistaking his visions for hallucinations. He knows better now. He's spent the last four months making sure.

He's not keen on driving into Cleveland. It's a big city, and everywhere he looks, there's flames. It's a living illustration of one of those puzzles that made him give up on the Bible in the first place: if there is a God, why does He allow evil? The only answer he's found that ever made sense is _because He doesn't play favorites_.

Only that's not strictly true, is it? Someone--or some _thing_ \--made an exception for him once. So why him? Why then? Why not now?

Maybe he'll finally get some answers tonight. He may not want to be in Cleveland, but something wants _him_ here. The pull is a constant throb inside his head, driving him onward. He's got a pretty good idea of why he's here; he's tried making his own guardians, and while it was the best sleep he's had in half a year, it's not enough. Maybe what he needs is a beacon, a herald, someone to carry the word.

_Here I am, in case you forgot. Only I haven't done a thing worth saving me for, so maybe you could give me a hint. Do I need more time? Did I screw it all up? Or were you waiting for me to change into this?_

At the mouth of an alley, Elliot stops, struck by a notion he hasn't considered before. This thing he does, the way he sees…is he really alone in that, or is that the way angels see the world too? They must have some way of separating sinners from saints. Maybe they're just like him. Maybe they've just been waiting.

So how does he show them he's finally ready?

***

The dead security guard floats high above the rain-soaked concrete, hung from scaffolding and backlit by security lamps glowing through a backdrop of plastic sheeting. Whatever construction is in progress behind that flimsy barrier, it's been mockingly outdone by what was created here tonight.

This time the arms are outstretched, the wings sweeping down below their open embrace. Unlike the first two, the guard still wears his pants and shoes, but that fits with what little Will understands of the killer's particular brand of psychosis. The Andersons were posed almost modestly, but displaying this one nude--that would've been distasteful. For all the theater of his kills, the effect aimed for here is one of solemnity and power, not a lurid show for the prurient.

It definitely reads as a lot more traditional in its execution, but….

 _Do not be afraid. I bring you good news_.

He's seen it on at least a dozen Christmas cards, hasn't he?

He's vaguely aware of the footsteps coming up at his back, enough that when Jack pauses at his shoulder, he doesn't jump out of his skin. Real surprise would take more energy than he has at the moment; aside from a few unsatisfying naps, it's been two days since he's slept, going on three, and just keeping his feet has him drawing on reserves he's forgotten he had.

"Why angels?" Jack asks, body angled towards him though he's unable to tear his eyes from the corpse.

Will sucks in a steadying breath. "Well, it isn't biblical. His angels have wings." Jack shoots him a doubtful look, reminding Will that people don't just _know_ this stuff unless they have some pressing need to dig deeper. "Angels in sculptures and paintings can fly, but not in scripture."

"He's drawing from secular sources?" Jack asks with a frown.

He may not be pulling from anywhere. This is just…beyond easy explanation, perhaps for the Angel Maker as well. "His mind has turned against him," Will mutters with sympathetic dread, "and there's no one there to help."

"Jack," Zeller calls from where he's crouched at the foot of the bloodstained sheeting. A mangled lump of flesh dangles from his tweezers, and for a moment Will's scratchy eyes refuse to make any sense of what they're seeing.

Price makes the connection first, face screwing up in disbelief. "Are those….. What are those?" he asks, second-guessing himself queasily.

"Somebody got an orchiectomy real cheap," Zeller confirms as he seals the evidence in a marked container for later examination.

"Doesn't look like the victim," Katz says, aiming her flashlight at the victim's crotch. There's no blood. Will's not surprised.

Price grimaces. "So they're the Angel Maker's?"

"He castrated _himself_?" Katz demands of no one in particular, letting the beam of her flashlight drop.

"So he isn't just making angels," Will says grimly, "he's getting ready to become one. Angels don't have genitalia," he explains as all eyes turn to him, their puzzled looks making him feel like the lone New Ager at an atheist convention.

"So he was afraid of dying," Jack says. "Now he's, what, getting used to the idea?'

Will shakes his head. "He's--he's accepting it or he's bargaining," he hedges, lifting a hand to knead at the tense ache building at the base of his skull.

"Bargaining chips!" Zeller says with a grin, snapping a lid on the collection container. Price laughs, and even Katz cracks a smile, but Jack ignores their antics, eyes fixed on the body.

"So does this mean that he's done making angels, or is he just getting started?"

"I don't know," Will admits as he lets his hand drop. His scalp feels too tight, compressing his skull until he feels strangely light-headed, like the tension in his neck is cutting off the flow of blood to his brain.

"Well, he's not just killing them when he's sleepy," Jack plows ahead. "I mean, how is he choosing them?"

"I don't know," Will says again, Jack's impatient tone chipping away at his fraying calm. "Ask him."

"I'm asking you," Jack insists, turning to him like he expects Will to pull answers out of thin air on command.

Jack's frustration collides with Will's own, and all at once it's too much.

"Well, you're the head of the Behavioral Science Unit, Jack," Will snaps, not half as sharply as he'd like. He's just so _tired_. "Why don't you come up with your own answers if you don't like mine?"

He knows he's made a mistake the instant the words leave his mouth. The others' shocked stillness screams danger as Jack takes three slow, deliberate steps forward before turning to confront him. Shoulders set, he looks like a bull about to lower its horns, not that Will's ever forgotten that Jack's a big man, used to using his size to intimidate. It's a stupid, cheap ploy he wishes he'd seen the last of in high school, but even knowing it for what it is, Will isn't immune.

"I did not hear that," Jack barks with a hint of a growl, projecting his displeasure without caring who hears. "Did I?"

 _Well, maybe you should_ , hovers on the tip of Will's tongue, but he can't make himself say it--not with the other three scrambling for cover, eyes nervously averted as they pass him by on either side, making for the mouth of the alley. Apparently he was wrong about the nature of abandonment, because while he hadn't expected solidarity, he can't help feeling a bit betrayed as he's left to his fate.

Maybe he deserves it. He knows he's on edge, knew from day one that Jack's temper runs to the explosive. If Jack didn't care so much about seeing justice served, he'd be unbearable--he's unbearable anyway some days--but it's almost the only thing he does care about. Jack _needs_ results, and for that he needs Will, and Will…he knows what they're going to say if he goes crawling back to his classroom now. Couldn't cut it as an agent, couldn't even keep his shit together when people were actively dying. Never mind that this case has him feeling more uncertain of his abilities than he has in his life. He has to at least see this through.

Slipping off his glasses buys him a little space, feeding into others' assumption that he's blind without them. Tapping them against his palm, he takes a deep breath and swallows his pride. "No, you didn't," he says with a tight smile that quickly fades. "I'm sorry," he adds as he slips past Jack to get a closer look at the corpse. Jack rarely bothers him when he's focused on a scene.

If that habit holds true, it'll be the one thing he can say he conclusively _knows_ about this entire mess.

***

While the dogs are pretty much worthless as guards, as an alarm system, they're top-notch. If the soldier had been sleeping, the joyful commotion the mutts kick up at the first whisper of familiar tires would've brought him to full alert in a heartbeat.

Though Graham's kept in touch the entire time he's been gone, the soldier fades back into the hall near the kitchen, eyeing the car as it coasts to a stop. When Graham steps out--alone--the soldier cautiously relaxes, but he's not truly satisfied until he hears the jingle of Graham's keys in the door, sees him hesitate automatically to see if any of the dogs want out before stumbling the rest of the way inside. That's definitely Graham, and he seems to be in one piece, but the way he sags when he closes the door behind himself is all wrong.

"Something happened," the soldier says, belatedly remembering that he should've made some noise or something first. Graham jerks, staring blearily about until the soldier steps out of the shadows. It takes Graham a moment to realize that was a question.

"Not--not really," Graham hedges, briefly giving all his attention to the dogs crowding around his feet. "Nothing for you to worry about, anyway. I...kind of blew up at Jack at a crime scene," he admits, more shamefaced than the confession deserves. "It was stupid, just--I don't know what he expects from me. This guy we're looking for--he isn't crazy; he's sick, literally sick, bad enough he's going to die from it, and that's...how do you profile a tumor?" Graham's voice rises with every word, helpless frustration crackling off him like static.

Caution urges the soldier to keep still, blank his expression and wait for his handler's mood to pass.

"He's been leaning on you again," he says instead, voice tight with displeasure. He might not have spent as much time tailing Crawford as some of the others, but he hadn't needed to. What he'd seen, and Graham's face every time he picks up the phone, tells him enough.

Graham opens his mouth and catches himself, shoulders pulling in. "He just wants to keep me where I can do the most good."

"For others? Or for him?"

Graham shakes his head like it might fall off if he makes any sudden moves. "Jack's not...he doesn't do this for the acclaim."

"Yeah?" the soldier asks, swallowing his skepticism. Headlines aren't everything. Just look at him. "Well, being driven by a cause ain't better. You can't trust handlers, Graham."

Graham's head rocks back, tired eyes blinking wide. "He's not--"

"Doesn't matter what you call 'em," the soldier cuts in before they can get bogged down with semantics. "Look, you're not a full agent, right?"

"Full-time teacher, part-time consultant," Graham replies warily.

The soldier nods. "So that means they've got less invested in you. Less time, less training. Fewer people to ask why a valuable resource got broken. You weren't even in the budget, Graham. What you do? That was a windfall." Graham stands blinking at him, tired enough the words are taking a moment to sink in, expression freezing around wounded eyes as resistance falls. The soldier knows he can't stop now--Graham needs to _get this_ \--but he gentles his voice as he delivers up the rest of his warning. "You let Crawford push, he's just going to keep pushing. For the job, for the cause, because his bosses are pushing him...doesn't matter. Result's still the same."

Graham's jaw clenches as he pulls his eyes away from the soldier's left ear, staring off into the shadows. The soldier braces for the explosion sure to follow, but Graham just huffs out a tired sigh.

"There really are two of you," he mutters with a humorless smile. "Did Hannibal put you up to this?"

 _Got it from Mom_ and _Dad, didn't you_? a voice drawls in memory, big and booming, bristling with half-stifled hilarity. There's no occasion, no face tied to the memory, but he grasps the meaning loud and clear.

"Didn't have to," the soldier replies, though he wouldn't have ratted Lecter out anyway, not in this. "Look, I know you want to do the right thing, save the world and all that, but this Crawford fella's bad news."

Graham frowns, but a peculiar smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, surprised and a little amused. "Did you know you get an accent when you're doing the mother hen thing?"

 _Don't change the subject_ flies to his lips like a reflex, but he stifles it just in time. "Uh...no?"

Frown turning thoughtful, Graham tilts his head. "You said you made it as far as New York once. Were you headed there specifically, or...?"

The soldier shifts on his feet, momentarily distracted. Had New York itself been the goal? He can't remember what he'd been thinking at the time; he'd just seen an opportunity and seized it. He remembers a sense of urgency, a single-minded drive to get...somewhere, but the details are hazy. He does remember what followed: the chair, and how the pain stretched until time lost meaning, his dawning conviction that he'd finally crossed the last line that would lead to his termination. He must have passed out eventually; the next thing he remembers is waking from cryo, gutted with disappointment even before he remembered why.

He shakes his head. "I don't remember." No accent that time. That's good. It's hard to blend in when you sound like a stranger. He used to have more control.

Graham nods, rueful but unsurprised. "We'll have to drive up there someday when things blow over. See if it jogs any memories."

The soldier's chest tightens at the suggestion, not so much from Graham's offer to go out of his way to help but because Graham still thinks this is going to _blow over_. It still hasn't sunk in for him yet that by helping the soldier, he's made himself a target for the rest of his life.

"Yeah," the soldier says with unfeigned gratitude. "That'd be great."

There's no way he's going to let Graham do something that stupid, but it's the thought that counts.

"All right, then. Anyway. Look, I appreciate the concern," Graham says, sounding only a little like it's himself he's trying to convince, "but I can handle Jack. And who knows? It may come in handy, having someone on the inside," he adds, sobering though the tone of his words are light.

Christ, he hopes not. It's not that he doesn't think Graham has it in him, because clearly he does. It's not even that he worries that Graham's knack for stepping inside other people's heads will leave him with Hydra sympathies rooted inside his own. Graham's still dragging uncomfortable strangers along with him, unasked-for and uninvited. He doesn't need to be dragging Hydra too.

"Are they still giving you an out?" the soldier asks, figuring it's probably a lie if they are. He just wants to know how far the fiction stretches.

"I can always say no," Graham assures him. "Go back to my classroom. Jack will go on the warpath," he admits, eyes going wide and distant for a brief moment in dread, "but there's not much he can do about it. It's not like I've been transferred; I'm just on loan."

The soldier isn't sure if that's better or worse. It sounds to him like everyone's scrambling to avoid any potential blame. They've given Crawford free rein, but ultimately who's responsible for Graham? Not Crawford, the soldier's willing to bet.

"You tell me if that changes," the soldier instructs, and he gives no fucks that he's not supposed to be the one handing out orders.

Graham looks briefly disquieted, like he's...worried? About what the soldier will do, the soldier realizes after a moment. That's a new one. Though to be fair, he's been more often reprimanded for a lack of initiative than anything he might have gotten up to.

"I'll keep you posted," Graham says, which isn't exactly agreement, but the soldier will take it. He's got Lecter to back him up, and vice versa.

Between the two of them, they can't miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So man, this episode. THIS EPISODE. Leaving aside the fact that Buddish's inexplicable accuracy can pretty much only be explained by the mutant gene, play watch the wardrobe changes with me and marvel at how long Will stayed awake during this arc. Poor guy! D:


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